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PREFACE. 



The poems of Alice and Phoebe Gary were published in a joint volume 
during the life-time of the sisters ; the first venture was made in this way 
in 1S49, and the large public interested in their songs has ever since in- 
stinctively connected writers, who, bound together by peculiar ties, were as 
akin and as divergent in their poetry as they were in their natures. Subse- 
quently to the first venture, they issued their volumes of poetry separately, 
nit after their death, the editor of their writings, Mrs. Mary Clemmer, again 
associated them. Her Memorial contained their later poems ; this vol- 
ume was followed by the "Last Poems of Alice and Phcebe Cary," and 
finally by " Ballads for Little Folk," again a joint collection. 

The poems, scattered thus through several volumes, are now brought 
together into a single volume, each writer having her own portion. To 
facilitate comparison and reference, it has been thought desirable to clas- 
sify the poems upon a common plan which agrees substantially with that 
adopted by Mrs. Clemmer. The Memorial prepared by Mrs. Clemmer 
introduces the volume, and we add here the preface to the original edi- 
tion. 



When at the request of the brothers of Alice and Phcebe Cary, I sat 
down to write a Memorial of their lives, and looking through the entire 
mass of their papers, found not a single word of their own referring in any 
personal way to themselves, every impulse of my heart impelled me to re- 
linquish the task. To tell the story of any human life, even in its outward 
incidents, wisely and justly, is not an easy thing to do. But to attempt a 
fit memorial of two women whose lives must be chiefly interpreted by in- 
ward rather than outward events, and solely from personal knowledge and 
remembrance, was a responsibility that I was unwilling to assume. With 
the utter absence of any data of their own, it seemed to me that the lives 
of the Cary sisters could only be produced from the combined reminis- 
cences of all their more intimate personal friends. Months were con- 
sumed in writing to, and in waiting for replies from, long-time friends of 
the sisters. All were willing, but alas ! they " had destroyed all letters," 
had forgotten " lots and lots of things that would have been interesting ; " 
they were preoccupied, or sick ; and, after months of waiting, I sat where 
I began, with the mass of Alice's and Phoebe's unedited papers before 
me, and not an added line for their lives, with a new request from their 
legatees and executors that I should go on with the Memorial. 



iv PREFACE. 

Here it is. 

It has cost me more than labor. Every day I have buried my friends 
anew. Every line wrung from memory has deepened the wound of irrep- 
arable loss. 

From beginning to end my one purpose has been, not to write a eulogy, 
but to write justly. In depicting their birthplace and early life in Ohio, I 
have quoted copiously from Phoebe's sketch of Alice, and Ada Carnahan's 
sketch of her Aunt Phoebe, both published in the (Boston) " Ladies' Re- 
pository," believing that that which pertained exclusively to their early 
family life could be more faithfully told by members of the family than by 
any one born outside of it. Save where full credit is given to others, I, 
alone, am responsible for the statements of this Memorial. Not a line in 
it has been recorded from " hearsay." Not a fact is given that I do not 
know to be true, either from my own personal knowledge, or from the lips 
of the women whose lives and characters it helps to represent. I make 
this statement as facts embodied by me before, in a newspaper article, have 
been publicly questioned. One writer went so far as to say in a public jour- 
nal, that " As she would not willingly misrepresent her, Mrs. Clemmer must 
have misunderstood Alice Cary." I never misunderstood Alice Gary. She 
never uttered a word to me that I did not perfectly understand. I have 
never recorded a word of her that I did not know to be true; nor with any 
purpose but to do absolute justice to my dearest friend. This is a full 
and final reply to any query or doubt which this Memorial may suggest or 
call forth. All who read have a perfect right to criticise and to question ; 
but I shall not feel any obligation to make further reply. Life is too short 
and too precious to spend it in privately answering persons who " wish to 
be assured that the Cary sisters were not Universalists," or who cultivate 
original theories concerning their character or life. 

The poems following the Memorial have, with but three or four excep- 
tions, never before been gathered within the covers of a book. The excep- 
tions are Alice's " The Sure Witness," " One Dust," and " My Creed," all 
published before in the volume of her poems brought out by Hurd and 
Houghton in 1865, and reproduced here as special illustrations of her 
character, faith, and death. 

In parting with a portion of the treasures and "pictures of memory," it 
has been difficult sometimes to decide which to give and which to retain. 
Many, too precious for any printed page, were nevertheless such a part of 
the true souls from whom they emanated, that to withhold them seemed 
like defrauding the living for the sake of the dead. Thus some incidents 
are given solely because they are necessary to the perfect portrayal of the 
nature which they concern. No fact has been told which has not this sig- 
nificance. No line has been written for the sake of writing it. But as I 
cease, I feel more keenly even than when I began, how inadequate- is any 
one hand, however conscientious, to trace two lives so delicately and. vari- 
ously tinted, to portray two souls so finely veined with a many-shaded deep 
humanity. 




TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



A MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

The House of their Birth. — 
Their Father and Mother. — 
Ancestry, Childhood, and Early 
Youth i 

CHAPTER II. 
Early Struggles and Success . . 8 

CHAPTER III. 

Their Home. — Habits of Life 
and of Labor. — The Summer 
of 1S69 15 

CHAPTER IV. 



Their Sunday Eyening Recep- 
tions 

CHAPTER V. 
Alice Cary. — The Woman . . . 



23 



27 



PAGE 

-,8 



CHAPTER VI. 
Alice Cary. — The Writer . 

CHAPTER VII. 
Alice's Last Summer 50 

CHAPTER VIII. 
Alice's Death and Burial . 



CHAPTER IX. 
Phcebe Cary. — The Writer 

CHAPTER X. 
Phcebe Cary. — The Woman , 



54 



59 



70 



CHAPTER XI. 

Phozbe's Last Summer. — Death 
and Burial 79 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Sisters Compared. — Their 
Last Resting-place ...*.. 87 



ALICE CARY'S POEMS. 



To the Spirit of Song 02 

Ballads and Xarratiye Poems. 

The Young Soldier 93 

Ruth and I 04 

Hagen Walder 9- 

Our School-master 9- 

The Gray Swan 96 

The Washerwoman 97 

Growing Rich 98 



Sandy Macleod 98 

The Picture-book 99 

A Walk through the Snow .... 99 

The Water-bearer 100 

The Best Judgment 102 

Hugh Thorndyke 103 

Faithless 103 

My Faded Shawl 104 

Old Chums 106 



VI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Shoemaker 107 

To the Wind 108 

Little Cyrus 109 

Fifteen and Fifty no 

Jenny Dunleath . . .• 112 

Tricksey's Ring 114 

Crazy Christopher 116 

The Ferry of Gallaway 118 

Revolutionary Story 119 

The Daughter 120 

The Might of Love 121 

"The Grace Wife of Keith" . . .122 

Johnny .Right 123 

The Settler's Christmas Eve . . .124 

The Old Story 126 

Balder's Wife 127 

At Rehearsal 128 

The Fisherman's Wife 129 

Maid and Man 130 

The Double Skein " 131 

Selfish Sorrow 132 

The Edge of Doom 133 

The Chopper's Child 134 

The Dead House 136 

One Moment 137 

The Flax Beater 138 

Cottage and Hall 140 

The Mines of.Avondale 141 

The Victory of Perry 142 

The Window just over the Street . 144 

A Fable of Cloud-land 145 

Barbara at the Window 146 

Barbara in the Meadow 146 

Ballad of Uncle Joe ...... 147 

The Farmer's Daughter 149 

Poems of Thought and Feeling. 
On seeing a Drowning Moth . . .150 

Good and Evil 150 

Stroller's Song 151 

A Lesson 151 

" He spoils his house and throws his 

pains away" 151 

On seeing a Wild Bird 152 

Rich, though Poor 152 

" Still from the unsatisfying quest " . 152 
" The glance that doth thy neighbor 

doubt" . . . 152 

Sixteen 153 

Prayer for Light 1 53 

The Uncut Leaf 154 

The Might of Truth ...... 154 

Two Travelers 154 

The Blind Traveler 155 

My Good Angel 156 



PAGE 

Care 156 

More Life 156 

Contradictory . . 156 

This is All 157 

In Vain icy 

Best, to the Best . . 158 

Thorns 158 

Old Adam . . ic;8 

Sometimes . .159 

" Too much of joy is sorrowful " . .159 
The Sea-side Cave . . . . . .159 

The Measure of Time 159 

Idle Fears ......... 160 

" Do not look for wrong and evil " 160 
" Our unwise purposes are wisely 

crossed" 160 

Hints 161 

To a Stagnant River 161 

"Apart from the woes that are dead 

and gone " 161 

Counsel 162 

Latent Life 162 

How and Where . 162 

The Felled Tree . . . . . . .163 

A Dream 163 

Work • 163 

Comfort 164 

Faith and Works .164 

The Rustic Painter 164 

One of Many 165 

The Shadow 165 

The Unwise Choice 166 

Providence 167 

The Living Present 167 

The Weaver's Dream 167 

Not Now 168 

Crags 168 

Man 169 

To Solitude . 169 

The Law of Liberty 169 

My Creed 170 

Open Secrets 170 

The Saddest Sight . . . . . .170 

The Bridal Hour 171 

Idle . 171 

God is Love 1 72 

Life's Mysteries '• 173 

" We are the mariners, and God the 

sea" .- . . 173 

"The best man should never pass 

by" 173 

Pledges 174 

Proverbs in Rhyme .' 174 

Fame 174 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



vn 



Genius 

In Bonds 

Nobility 

To the Muse 

" I Ier voice was sweet and low " . • 

Ring 

Text ami Moral 

To my Friend 

One of Manv 

Light 

Trust . . . . 

Life 

Plea for Charity 

Second Sight 

Life's Roses 

Secret Writing 

Dreams 

My Poet 

Written on the Fourth of July, 1S64 
Abraham Lincoln ........ 

Saved 

Spent and Misspent 

Last and Best 

Poems of Nature and Home. 

If and If 

An Order for a Picture 

The Summer Storm 

The Special Darling 

A Dream of Home 

Evening Pastimes 

Faded Leaves 

The Light of Days gone by . . . 

A Sea Song 

Sermons in Stones 

My Picture 

Morning in the Mountains . . . . 

The Thistle Flower 

My Darlings" 

The Field Sweet-brier 

The Little House on the Hill . . . 

The Blackbird 

Cradle Song 

Going to Court 

On the Sea 

A Fragment 

Shadows 

April 

Poppies 

A Sea Song 

Winter and Summer 

Autumn 

Damaris 

A Lesson 

Katrina on the Porch .... 



PAGB 

74 
75 
76 
7<> 
76 
77 
77 
78 
7S 

79 
79 
So 
81 
Si 
84 
84 
85 
85 
S6 

86 

S 7 
88 
SS 

89 
90 

92 

93 

93 
94 
94 
94 
95 
95 
96 

96 
97 
98 
98 

99 
200 
200 
201 
201 
202 
202 
203 
203 
204 
205 
205 
206 
206 
207 



The West Country 20S 

The Old Homestead 20N 

Contradiction 209 

My Dreatn Of Dreams 209 

In the I >ark 210 

An Invalid's Plea 211 

Poems of Love. 

The Bridal Veil 212 

Pitiless Fate 212 

The Lover's Interdict 213 

Snowed Under 214 

An Emblem 215 

Queen of Roses 215 

Now and Then 21(1 

The Lady to the Lover 216 

Love's Secret Springs 217 

At Sea 217 

A Confession 21S 

Easter Bridal Song 218 

Prodigal's Plea 219 

The Seal Fisher's Wife 219 

Carmia 219 

Epithalamium 220 

Jennie 220 

Miriam 221 

"O winds ye are too rough, too 

rough " 221 

Poems of Grief and Consolation. 

Mourn not 222 

Consolation 222 

Under the Shadow 222 

Lost Lilies 223 

A Wonder 224 

Most Beloved .22s 

My Darlings 225 

In Despair 225 

Wait 226 

The Other Side 226 

A Wintry Waste 227 

The Shadow 227 

How Peace came 227 

Be still 228 

Vanished 228 

Safe 228 

Waiting 229 

Intimations 229 

The Great Question 229 

" What comfort, when with clouds of 

of woe " 230 

Religious Poems and Hymns. 

Thanksgiving 231 

" Hope in our hearts doth only stay " 236 

Morning 237 

One Dust 237 



vn: 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Signs of Grace 238 

January . 238 

Alone 239 

A Prayer 239 

Counsel 239 

Supplication 240 

Putting off the Armor 240 

Forgiveness 241 

The Golden Mean 241 

The Fire by the Sea 241 

The Sure Witness 242 

A Penitent's Plea 243 

Love is Life 243 

" Thy works, O Lord, interpret 

Thee " 243 

" Our God is love, and that which we 

miscall " 243 

Time 244 

Supplication 244 

Whither 244 

Sure Anchor 244 

Remember 245 

Adelied 245 

Sunday Morning 245 

In the Dark 245 

Parting Song .• 246 

The Heaven that 's here 246 

" Among the pitfalls in our way " . 246 

The Stream of Life 247 

Dead and Alive 247 

Life of Life 247 

Mercies 248 

Pleasure and Pain 248 

Mysteries 248 

Lyric 249 

Trust 249 

All in All 249 

The Pure in Heart 250 

Unsatisfied 250 

More Life 250 

Light and Darkness 251 

Substance 251 

Life's Mystery 251 



PAGE 

For Self-help 252 

Dying Hymn 252 

Extremities .252 

Here and There 252 

The Dawn of Peace 253 

Occasional ' . 253 

" Why should our spirits be opprest ? " 253 
Poems for Children. 
The Little Blacksmith . . . . .254 

Little Children ........ 254 

A Christmas Story . . . .-•... ■ .254 

November 256 

Make-believe 257 

A Nut hard to crack 259 

Hide and Seek 259 

Three Bugs 261 

Waiting for Something to turn up . 261 

Suppose 262 

A Good Rule ........ 262 

To Mother Fairie 263 

Barbara Blue 264 

Take care 265 

The Grateful Swan ....... 265 

A Short Sermon 266 

Story of a Blackbird 267 

Fairy-folk 268 

Buried Gold 268 

Recipe for an Appetite 269 

The Pig and the Hen 269 

Spider and Fly 270 

A Lesson of Mercy 270 

The Flower Spider 271 

Dan and Dimple and how they quar- 
reled 271 

To a Honey-bee 272 

At the Tavern 272 

What a Bird taught 273 

Old Maxims 273 

Peter Grey 274 

A Sermon for Young Folks . . . 274 
Telling Fortunes ....... 274 

The Wise Fairy 275 

A Child's Wisdom 276 



Ballads and Narrative Poems. 

Dovecote Mill 281 

The Homestead 281 

The Gardener's Home . . . . 282 

The Mill 283 

Sugar-making 284, 

The Playmates 284 



PHCEBE CARY'S POEMS. 

The School 286 

Youth and Maiden 287 

The Country Grave-yard .... 287 

Wooing 288 

Plighted 289 

Wedded . . . • 290 

The Baby 292 



TABLE OF ( 



IX 



PAGB 

The Father 292 

The Wife 

A Ballad of Lauderdale 295 

The Three Wrens 

Dorothy's Dower 300 

Black Ranald 301 

The Leak in the Pike 303 

The Landlord of the Blue Hen . . 305 

The King's Jewel 306 

Edgar's Wife 307 

The Fickle 1 >av 307 

The Maid of Kirconnell 308 

Saint Macarius of the Desert . . . 308 

Fair Eleanor 310 

Breaking the Roads 310 

The Christmas Sheaf 312 

Little Gottlieb 313 

A Monkish Legend 314 

Arthur's Wife 315 

Grade 316 

Poor Margaret 317 

Lady Marjory 317 

The Old Man's Darling 320 

A Tent Scene 320 

The Lady Jaqueline 321 

The Wife's Christmas 322 

Coming round 322 

The Lamp on the Prairie .... 323 
Poems of Thought and Feeling. 

A Weary Heart 326 

Coming Home 326 

Hidden Sorrow 327 

A Woman's Conclusions .... 327 

Answered 328 

Disenchanted 328 

Alas! 328 

Mother and Son 329 

Theodora 329 

Up and Down 330 

Beyond 331 

Favored 332 

Women 332 

The only Ornament 332 

Equality 333 

Ebb Tide 333 

Happy Women 333 

Loss and Gain 334 

A Pra > er 334 

Memorial 334 

The Harmless Luxury 335 

Tried and True 335 

Peace 336 

Sunset 336 

A P ol ogV 337 



pagi 

The Shallow 

Morning and Afternoon 337 

Living by Faith $37 

My Lady 338 

Passing Feet 

My Riches 339 

Figs of Thistles 340 

Impatience 340 

Thou and I 3 jo 

Nobody's Child 341 

Poems of Nature and Home. 

An April Welcome 342 

My Neighbor's House 342 

The Fortune in the Daisy .... 343 

A Picture 343 

Faith 344 

To an Elf on a Buttercup .... 344 

Providence 345 

Old Pictures 345 

The Playmates 346 

" The Barefoot Boy " 347 

Winter Flowers 347 

March Crocuses 347 

Homesick 348 

" Field Preaching " 348 

Gathering Blackberries 349 

Our Homestead 350 

Spring after the War 351 

The Book of Nature 352 

Sugar-making 352 

Spring Flowers 353 

Poems of Love and Friendship. 

Amy's Love Letter 354 

Do you blame her ? 355 

Song 355 

Somebody's Lover 355 

On the River 356 

Inconstancy 357 

Love cannot die 357 

Helpless 357 

My Helper 358 

Faithful 359 

The Last Act 359 

True Love 360 

Complaint 360 

Doves' Eyes 360 

The Hunter's Wife 361 

Lovers and Sweethearts 361 

The Rose 362 

Archie 362 

A Day Dream 363 

The Prize 363 

A Woman's Answer 363 

In Absence 364 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Enchantment 364 

Wooed and Won 364 

Love's Recompense 365 

Jealousy 3 6 5 

Song 366 

I cannot tell 366 

Dead Love 366 

My Friend 367 

Dreams and Realities . . . . . 371 
Religious Poems and Hymns. 

.Nearer Home 372 

Many Mansions 372 

The Spiritual Body 374 

A Good Day 375 

H Y mn 375 

Drawing Water ^7S 

Too Late 37 c; 

Retrospect 376 

Human and Divine 376 

Over-payment 377 

Vain Repentance 377 

In Extremity 378 

Peccavi 378 

Christmas 378 

Compensation 379 

Reconciled •. 380 

Thou knowest 381 

Christmas 382 

Prodigals 382 

St. Bernard of Clairvaux 383 

The Widow's Thanksgiving . . . 384 

Via Crucis, Via Lucis 385 

Hymn 385 

Of one Flesh 386 

Teach us to wait 3 8 ^ 

In His Army 3 8 7 

" The heart is not satisfied "... 387 

Unbelief 3 8 7 

The Vision on the Mount .... 387 

A Canticle . 3 88 

The Cry of the Heart and Flesh . . 389 

Our Pattern 3 8 9 

The Earthly House 389 

Ye did it unto Me 390 

The Sinner at the Cross . . ' . . .391 

The Heir 39 2 

Realities 392 

Hymn 39 2 

Wounded . . . • 393 



PAGE 

A Cry of the Heart 393 

Poems of Grief and Consolation. 

Earth to Earth 394 

The Unhonored 394 

Jennie 395 

Cowper's Consolation . . . ... 39C 

Twice smitten 396 

Border-land . 397 

The Last Bed , 397 

Light 397 

Waiting the Change ...... 398 

Personal Poems. 

Ready 399 

Dickens . . 399 

Thaddeus Stevens 400 

John Greenleaf Whittier 400 

The Hero of Fort Wagner .... 401 

Garibaldi in Piedmont 401 

John Brown 403 

Otway 403 

Our Good President 404 

Poems for Children. 

To the Children 405 

Griselda Goose 405 

The Robin's Nest 410 

Rain and Sunshine 412 

Baby's Ring 412 ■, 

Don't give up 412 

The Good Little Sister 413 

Now 414 

The Chicken's Mistake 414 

Effie's Reasons 414 

Feathers 415 

The Prairie on Fire 416 

Dappledun 417 

Suppose. 417 

A Legend of the Northland . . . 417 

Easy Lessons 418 > 

Obedience 419 * 

The Crow's Children 420 

Hives and Homes 420 

Nora's Charm 421 

They didn't think 422 

Ajax 423 

" Keep a stiff upper lip " .... 423 
What the Frogs sing . . . ... . 4 2 3 

The Hunchback . . .425 

The Envious Wren 4 2 5 

The Happy Little Wife 426 



A MEMORIAL 



OF 



Alice and Phcebe Cary. 




A MEMORIAL 



OF 



ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE HOUSE OF THEIR BIRTH. — THEIR 
FATHER AND MOTHER. — ANCESTRY, 
CHILDHOOD, AND EARLY YOUTH. 

In a brown house, " low and small," 
on a farm in t'ne Miami Valley, eight 
miles north of Cincinnati, Ohio, Alice 
Cary was born on the 26th day of April, 
1820. In the same house, September 4, 
1824, was born her sister and life-long 
companion, Phoebe. 

This house appeared and reappeared 
in the verse of both sisters, till their 
last lines were written. Their affection 
for it was a deep and life-long emotion. 
Each sister, within the blinds of a city 
house, used to shut her eyes and listen 
till she thought she heard the rustle of 
the cherry-tree on the old roof, and 
smelled again the sweet-brier under the 
window. You will realize how per- 
fectly it was daguerreotyped on Phoe- 
be's heart when you follow two of the 
many pictures which she has left of it. 
Phoebe says : " The house was small, 
unpainted, without the slightest preten- 
sions to architectural beauty. It was 
one story and a half in height, the front 
looking toward the west and separated 
from the high-road by a narrow strip 
of door-yard grass. A low porch ran 
across the north of the house, and from 
the steps of this a path of blue flag- 
stones led to a cool, unfailing well of 
water a few yards distant. Close to 
1 



the walls, on two sides, and almost push- 
ing their strong, thrifty boughs through 
the little attic window, flourished sev- 
eral fruitful apple and cherry trees ; and 
a luxuriant sweet-brier, the only thing 
near that seemed designed solely for 
ornament, almost covered the other side 
of the house. Beyond the door-yard, 
and sloping toward the south, lay a 
small garden, with two straight rows 
of currant bushes dividing its entire 
length, and beds of vegetables laid out 
on either side. Close against the fence 
nearest the yard grew several varieties 
of roses, and a few hardy and common 
flowers bordered the walks. In one 
corner a thriving peach-tree threw in 
summer its shade over a row of bee- 
hives, and in another its withered mate 
was supported and quite hidden by a 
fragant bower of hop vines. A little 
in the rear of the dwelling stood the 
ample, weather-beaten barn, the busy 
haunt of the restless swallows and quiet, 
comfortable cloves, and in all seasons 
the never-failing resort of the children. 
A stately and symmetrical oak, which 
had been kindly spared from the forest 
when the clearing for the house was 
made, grew near it, and in the summer 
threw its thick, cool shadow over the 
road, making a grateful shade for the 
tired traveler, and a pleasant play- 
ground for the children, whose voices, 
now so many of them stilled, once made 
life and music there through all the live- 
long day." 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



OUR HOMESTEAD. 

Our old brown homestead reared its 
walls 
From the wayside dust aloof, 
Where the apple-boughs could almost 
cast 
Their fruit upon its roof ; 
And the cherry-tree so near it grew 

That, when awake I 've lain 
In the lonesome nights, I 've heard the 
limbs 
As they creaked against the pane ; 
And those orchard trees ! oh, those 
orchard trees ! 
I 've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 

The sweet-brier under the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad, 
And the damask rose by the garden 
fence, 
Were all the flowers we had. 
I 've looked at many a flower since then, 

Exotics rich and rare, 
That to other eyes were lovelier, 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright ! oh, those roses 
bright ! ' 
I have twined them in my sister's 
locks 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 

We had a well — a deep, old well, 

Where the spring was never dry, 
And the cool drops down from the 
mossy stones 
Were falling constantly : 
And there never was water half so sweet 
As the draught which filled my cup. 
Drawn up to the curb by the rude, old 
sweep, 
That my father's hand set up ; 
And that deep, old well ! oh, that deep, 
old well ! 
I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 

Our homestead had an ample hearth, 

Where fit night we loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice was always 
kind, 

And her smile was always sweet ; 
And there I 've sat on my father's knee, 

And watched his thoughtful brow, 
With my childish hand in his raven 
hair — 

That hair is silver, now ! 



But that broad hearth's light ! oh, that 
broad hearth's light ! 
And my father's look, and my moth- 
er's smile, 

They are in my heart, to-night ! 

In her " Order for a Picture," which 
was her favorite among all the poems 
she had ever written, Alice has given 
us another reflection of her first home 
upon earth, and ite surroundings : — 

" Oh, good painter, tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw ? 

Aye ? Well, here is an order for you. 



" Woods and 
brown — 
The picture 



cornfields, a little 

must not be over- 
bright — 

Yet all in the golden and gracious 
light 
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is 

down. 
Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere. 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
When the wind can hardly find 
breatbing-room 
Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
Biting shorter the short, green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint 

sound !) — 
These, and the house where I was 

born, 
Low and little, and black and old, 
With children many as it can hold, 
All at the windows open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside : 
And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some 

day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way, 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush." 

In such a home were born Alice and 
Phcebe Cary ; Alice, the fourth, and 
Phoebe, the sixth child of Robert Cary 
and Elizabeth Jessup, his wife. 

Phcebe, in her precious memorial of 
Alice, gives this picture of their fa- 
ther and mother: " Robert Cary was a 
man of superior intelligence, of sound 
principles, and blameless life. He 



THEIR FATHER AND MOTHER. 



was very fond of reading, especially ro- 
mances and poetry ; but early poverty 
and the hard exigencies of pioneer life 
had left him no time for acquiring any- 
thing more than the mere rudiments of 
a common school education : and the 
consciousness of his want of culture, 
and an invincible diffidence born with 
him, gave him a shrinking, retiring man- 
ner, and a want of confidence in his 
own judgment, which was inherited to 
a large measure by his offspring. He 
was a tender, loving father, who sang 
his children to sleep with holy hymns, 
and habitually went about his work re- 
peating the grand old Hebrew poets, 
and the sweet and precious promises 
o\ the New Testament of our Lord." 
Ada Carnahan. the child of Robert and 
Elizabeth Can's oldest daughter, who 
inherits in no small degree the tine 
mental gifts of her family, in her ad- 
mirable sketch of her Aunt Phoebe, 
published in the Boston " Ladies' Re- 
pository," says of this father o£ poets : 
•• When he had no longer children in 
his arms, he still went on singing to 
himself, and held in his heart the words 
that he had so often repeated. For 
him the common life of a farmer was 
idealized into poetry; springtime and 
harvest were ever recurring miracles, 
and dumb animals became companion- 
able. Horses and cattle loved him, and 
would follow him all over the farm, 
sure to receive at least a kind word or 
gentle pat, and perhaps a few grains of 
corn, or a lump of salt or sugar : and 
there was no colt so shy that would not 
eat out his hand, and rub its head ca- 
ressingly against his shoulder. Of his 
children, Alice the most resembled him 
in person, and all the tender and close 
sympathy with nature, and with hu- 
manity, which in her found expression, 
had in him an existence as real, if 
voiceless. In his youth he must have 
been handsome. He was six feet in 
height, and well proportioned, with 
curling black hair, bright brown eyes, 
slightly aquiline nose, and remarkably 
beautiful teeth. " Those who saw him 
in New York, in the home of his daugh- 
ters, remember him a silver-haired, sad- 
eyed, soft-voiced patriarch, remarkable 
for the gentleness of his manners, and 
the emotional tenderness of his tem- 
perament. Tears rose to his eyes, 



smiles flitted across his \\n.\\ precisely 
as they did in the (acv <>t Alice 1 le 
was the prototype of Alice. In her 
was reproduced not only his form and 
features, but his mental, moral, and 
emotional nature. To see father and 
daughter together, one would involun- 
tarily exclaim, '' How alike ! " They 
loved to be together. It was a delight 
to the father to take that long journey 
from the Western farm to the New 
York home. Here, for the first time, 
he found reproduced in reality many of 
the dreams of his youth. Nothing 
gave greater delight to his daughters 
than " to take father " to see pictures, 
to visit friends, and to join in evening 
receptions. In the latter he took es- 
pecial pleasure, when he could sit in an 
arm-chair and survey the bright scene 
before him. He had poet eyes to see, 
and a poet's heart to feel the beauty of 
woman. Alice had a friend whom he 
never mentioned save as " your friend 
the pretty woman." He was informed, 
one evening, at a small party, that the 
beautiful young lady whom he was ad- 
miring, and who looked about twenty- 
five, was a happy matron and the 
mother of a grown-up son. His look 
of childlike amazement was irresist- 
ible. " Well, well," he exclaimed, 
"mothers of grown-up sons never 
looked as young as that in my day ! " 
The wife of this man, the mother of 
Alice and Phcebe Cary, was blue-eyed 
and beautiful. Her children lived to 
rise up and call her blessed. Alice 
said of her : " My mother was a woman 
of superior intellect and of good, well- 
ordered life. In my memory she stands 
apart from all others, wiser, purer, do- 
ing more, and living better than any 
other woman." And this is her por- 
trait of her mother in her " Order for a 
Picture " : — 

" A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon, you must paint for 

me : 
Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle 

grace, 
The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
That are beaming on me all the while, 
I need not speak these foolish 
words : 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



Yet one word tells you all I would 

. sa y> 

She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown 
away." 

Phoebe said of her : " She was the 
wonder of my childhood. She is no 
less a wonder to me as I recall her 
now. How she did so much work, and 
yet did it well ; how she reared care- 
fully, and governed wisely, so large a 
family of children, and yet found time 
to develop by thought and reading a 
mind of unusual strength and clearness, 
is still a mystery to me. She was fond 
of history, politics, moral essays, biog- 
raphy, and works of religious contro- 
versy. Poetry she read, but cared 
little for fictitious literature. An ex- 
emplary housewife, a wise and kind 
mother, she left no duty unfulfilled, yet 
she found time, often at. night, after 
every other member of the household 
was asleep, by reading, to keep herself 
informed of all the issues of the day, 
political, social, and religious." When 
we remember that the woman who kept 
herself informed of all the issues of the 
day, political, social, and religious, was 
the mother of- nine children, a house- 
wife, who performed the labor of her 
large household with her own hands ; 
that she lived in a rural neighbor- 
hood, wherein personal and family 
topics were the supreme subjects of 
discussion, aloof from the larger inter- 
ests and busy thoroughfares of men, we 
can form a juster estimate of the su- 
periority of her natural powers, and 
the native breadth of her mind and 
heart. 

Such were the father and mother of 
Alice and Phoebe Cary. From their 
father they inherited the poetic tem- 
perament, the love of nature, and of 
dumb creatures, their loving and pity- 
ing hearts, which were so large that 
they enfolded all breathing and un- 
breathing things. From their mother 
they inherited their interest in public 
affairs, their passion for justice, their 
devotion to truth and duty as they saw 
it, their clear perceptions, and sturdy 
common sense. 

Blended with their personal love for 
their father and mother, was an ingenu- 
ous pride and delight in their ancestry. 



They were proud of their descent. 
This was especially true of Phoebe. 
With all her personal modesty, which 
was very marked, pride of race was 
one of Phoebe Cary's distinguishing 
traits. She was proud of the Cary 
coat-of-arms, which hung framed in 
the little library in Twentieth Street ; 
prouder still to trace her name from 
the true and gentle father who gave it 
to her, to the John Cary who taught 
the first Latin school in Plymouth, and 
from him to the gallant Sir Robert 
Cary, who vanquished a chevalier of 
Aragon, in the reign of Henry V., in 
Smithfield, London. A friend, in a 
former biographical sketch of the two 
sisters, referring to this knight, said 
that the genealogy which connected 
him with the American Cary family 
"is at best unverified." In private, 
Phoebe often referred to this published 
doubt with considerable feeling. 

" Why do you care ? " asked a friend. 
" The conqueror of the Knight of Ara- 
gon cannot make you more or less." 

" But I do care," she said. '• He 
was my ancestor it has been proved. 
He bore the same name as my own 
father. I don't like to have any doubt 
cast upon it. It is a great comfort to 
me to know that we sprung from a 
noble, not an ignoble race." This fact 
was so much to her in life, it seems but 
just that she should have the full bene- 
fit of it in death. Thus is given the 
entire story of the Knight of Aragon, 
as printed in Burke's "Heraldry," with 
the complete genealogy of the branch 
of the American Cary family to which 
Alice and Phoebe belong : — 

John Cary, a lineal descendant of Sir 
Thomas Cary (a cousin of Queen Eliza- 
beth), came to the Plymouth Colony 
in 1630, was prominent and influential 
among the Pilgrim Fathers. He was 
thoroughly educated — taught the first 
Latin class, and held important. offices 
in the town and church. He married 
Elizabeth, a daughter of Francis God- 
frey, in 1644. He died in Bridgewater, 
in 1 68 1, aged 80 years. 



SECOND GENERATION. 

Joseph, the ninth child of John, born 
in Plymouth, in 1665, emigrated to 



THE CARY ANCESTRY. 



Connecticut, and was one of the origi- 
nal proprietors of the town of Wind- 
ham. At the organization oi the first 
church in Windham, in the year 1700, 

he was chosen deacon. He was a use- 
ful and very prominent man. He died 
in 1722. 

THIRD GENERATION. 

John, the fourth child of Joseph, 
horn in Windham, Connecticut, June 
23, 1695, married Hannah Thurston, 
resided in Windham, was a man of 
wealth and influence in the church and 
in public affairs. He died in 1776, 
I 81 years. 

FOURTH GENERATION. 

Samuel, the ninth child of John, 
born June 13, 1734. graduated at Yale 
College in the class of 1755, was a 
physician, eminent in his profession ; 
married Deliverance Grant, in Bolton, 
Connecticut, and emigrated to Lyme, 
New Hampshire, among the first col- 
onists, where he died in 1784. 

FIFTH GENERATION. 

Christopher, the eldest child of Sam- 
uel, born February 25, 1763, joined the 
army at an early age, under Colonel 
Waite of New Hampshire ; was taken 
prisoner by the British, and suffered 
great hardships. He married Elsie 
Terrel, at Lyme, New Hampshire, in 
1784, removed with his family to Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio, in 1802, died at College 
Hill. Ohio, in 1837. 

SIXTH GENERATION. 

Robert, the second child of Christo- 
pher, born January 24, 1787, emigrated 
with his father to the Northwest Terri- 
tory in 1802, settled upon a farm near 
Mount Healthy, Hamilton County, 
Ohio, married Elizabeth Jessup in 
18 14, was a soldier in the war of 18 12, 
and was at Hull's surrender. He died 
in 1866. Their children were : — 

1. Rowena, born 18 14, married Car- 
nahan, died 1869. 

2. Susan, born 1816, married Alex. 
Swift, died 1852. 

3. Rhoda, born 1818, died 1833. 

4. Alice, born 1820, died 1871. 



5. Asa. born 1S22. living at Mount 
Pleasant, Ohio. 

6. Phoebe, born 1824, died 1871. 

7. Warren, born 1820, Living near 
Harrison, Ohio. 

8. Lucy, born 1829, died 1833. 

9. Elmina, born 1831, married Alex. 
Swift, and died 1862. 

" In the beginning of the reign of 
Henry V., a certain knight-errant of 
Aragon, having passed through divers 
countries and performed many feats of 
arms, to his high commendation, ar- 
rived here in England, where he chal- 
lenged any man of his rank and quality 
to make trial of his valor and skill in 
arms. This challenge Sir Robert Cary 
accepted, between whom a cruel en- 
counter and a long and doubtful com- 
bat was waged in Smithfield, London. 
But at length this noble champion van- 
quished the presumptuous Aragonois, 
for which King Henry V. restored 
unto him a good part of his father's 
lands, which, for his loyalty to Richard 
II., he had been deprived by Henry 
IV., and authorized him to bear the 
arms of the Knight of Aragon, which 
the noble posterity continue to wear 
unto this day ; for according to the 
laws of heraldry, whoever fairly in the 
field conquers his adversary, may jus- 
tify the wearing of his arms." 

Phcebe had the Cary coat of arms 
engraved on a seal ring, which was 
taken from her finger after death. 

You see that it happened to the Cary 
family, as to many another of long 
descent, that it emerged from the vi- 
cissitudes of time and toil, poor, pos- 
sessing no finer weapon to vanquish 
hostile fate than the intrinsic temper of 
its inherited quality, the precious metal 
of honesty, industry, integrity, bravery, 
honor — in fine, true manhood. The 
great-grandfather of Alice and Phcebe, 
Samuel Cary, was graduated from Yale. 
A physician by profession, in Lyme, 
New Hampshire, he seems to have 
been the last of the manifold " Cary 
boys " who possessed the advantages 
of a liberal education. His eldest son, 
Christopher, entered the army of the 
Revolution at the age of eighteen. 
When peace was won, the young man 
received not money, but a land grant, 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE GARY. 



or warrant, in Hamilton County, Ohio, 
as his recompense. The necessity of 
poverty probably compelled Christo- 
pher to the lot of a tiller of the soil. 

And even Phcebe, if she thought of 
it, must have acknowledged that this 
grandsire of hers, who went into the 
army of freedom to fight the battles of 
his country at eighteen, who, when lib- 
erty was won, went to struggle with the 
earth, to wrest from the wilderness a 
home for himself and his children, was 
an ancestor more worthy of her admi- 
ration and pride than even the doughty 
Sir Robert, who fought with and over- 
came the Knight of Aragon. The ed- 
itor of the " Central Christian Advo- 
cate," in writing of the death of Alice, 
says : — 

" We remember well her grandfather, 
and the house at the foot of the great 
hill, where his land grant was located. 
In early boyhood we often climbed the 
hills, and sometimes listened to the 
conversation of the somewhat rough 
and rugged soldier, whom we all called 
' Uncle Christopher.' " 

Robert Cary* came with his father, 
Christopher, from New Hampshire to 
the wilderness of Ohio in 1803, at the 
age of fifteen. Says his granddaugh- 
ter, Ada Carnahan : " They traveled 
in an emigrant wagon to Pittsfield, and 
descending the river on a flat-boat, ar- 
rived at Fort Washington. This was 
a thriving settlement, though its people 
had hardly ceased to depend on its fort 
for protection from the savages, who 
still infested the surrounding forests 
and made occasional incursions into its 
immediate neighborhood." Here, for 
several years, the family remained, be- 
fore making a purchase of lands some 
eight miles north of the settlement, on 
what is still known as the Hamilton 
Road. 

Robert Cary and Elizabeth Jessup 
were married January 13, 18 14, and 
began their married life upon a quar- 
ter section of the original Cary pur- 
chase, the same land which will be re- 
membered for many generations as the 
Cloverno<5k of Alice Cary's stories. 
Again says Ada Carnahan : "In the 
comparatively short time that had 
elapsed, there had been most marvel- 
ous changes in all this vicinity. The 
red-man had disappeared. Log cabins 



and their surrounding clearings were 
scattered all over the region, while 
here and there might be seen a more 
pretentious frame dwelling. One of 
the latter Robert Cary reared for his 
home, which it continued to be for 
eighteen years, during which his nine 
children were born. The farm upon 
which Robert and Elizabeth Cary be- 
gan life was not, however, a gift, and 
it was the work of many laborious 
years to clear it from the incumbrance 
of debt — years which could not but 
make their impression upon their ris- 
ing family, and inculcate those lessons 
of perseverance, industry, and econ- 
omy, which are the very foundations of 
success." .... 

" As is almost always the case in 
large families, the Cary children di- 
vided themselves into groups and coup- 
les, as age and disposition dictated. In 
this grouping, Alice and Phcebe, after- 
wards to be brought into such close 
communion of life and thought, were 
separated. Alice's passionate devo- 
tion in life and death to the sister next 
older than herself is well known, while 
Phcebe, standing between her two 
brothers, turned toward the younger 
of these, whom she made her constant 

playfellow The children were 

much together in the open air, and 
were intimately acquainted with every 
nook and corner of their father's farm. 
They gathered wild flowers in May- 
time, and nuts in October, and learned 
to love the company of trees and blos- 
soms, birds and insects, and became 
deeply imbued with the love of nature. 
They were sensitive and imaginative, 
and it may well be that they, at least 
two of them, saw more beauty, and 
heard more melody in nature than 
every eye is open to perceive. As 
they grew older, this kind of holiday 
life was interrupted by occasional at- 
tendance upon the district school, and 
by instruction in such household em- 
ployments as were deemed indispen- 
sable — in knitting, sewing, spinning, 
cooking, churning, etc. Of all these, 
Phcebe only became proficient in the 
first two. In both these she took 
pleasure up to the time of her last ill- 
ness, and in both she. was unusually 
dexterous and neat, as well as in pen- 
manship, showing in these respects a 



CHILDHOOD. 



marked contrast to Alice. The school- 
house in which they gained the rudi- 
ments of an English education was dis- 
tant a mile and a quarter from their 
home. The plain, one story brick 
building is still used for school pur- 
poses. Tins distance was always 
walked. Upon her last visit to this 
vicinity, in 1S07. Phoebe Cary pointed 
OUt to me a goodly forest tree, growing 
at one side, but in the highway, and 
told how, when they were returning 
from school, one day, Alice found lying 
in the road a freshly cut switch, and 
picked it up, saying, ' Let us stick it 
in the ground and see if it will grow; ' 
and immediately acting on her own 

rgestion, she stuck it in the ground ; 
ana there, after more than thirty-five 
vears, it stood, a graceful and fitting 
monument to the gracious and tender 
nature which bade it live. 

"In the autumn of 1832, by perse- 
vering industry and frugal living, the 
farm was at last paid for, and a new 
and more commodious dwelling erected 
for the reception of the family, grown 
too large to be longer sheltered by 
the old roof-tree. This new dwelling, 
which is still standing, is no more than 
the plainest of farm-houses, built at a 
time when the family were obliged to 
board the builders, and the bricks were 
burned on the spot ; yet it represents 
a degree of comfort only attained after 
a long struggle.'' 

" It cost many years of toil and pri- 
vation — the new house. We thought 
it the beginning of better times. In- 
stead, all the sickness and death in the 
family dates from the time that it was 
finished. It seems as if nothing but 
trouble and sorrow have come since," 
said Alice Cary, late in the autumn of 
1S69, to a friend, as her starry eyes 
shone out from her pallid face, amid 
the delicate laces of her pillow, in the 
chamber on Twentieth Street. 

" Before that time I had two sources 
of unalloyed happiness : the compan- 
ionship of my sister Rhoda, and the 
care of my little sister Lucy. I shall 
always think Rhoda was the most 
gifted of all our family. The stories 
that she used to tell me on our way 
home from school had in them the 
germ of the most wonderful novels — 
of better novels than we read nowa- 



days. When we saw the house in 
sight, we would often sit down und< 
tree, that she might have more time to 
finish the story. My anxiety concern- 
ing the fate of the people in it was of- 
ten so great I could not possibly wait 
to have it continued. At another time 
it would take her days together to tell 
one story. Rhoda was very handsome ; 
her great, dark eyes would shine with 
excitement as she went on. For my- 
self, by the time she had finished, I 
was usually dissolved in tears over the 
tragic fate of her heroes and heroines. 
Lucy was golden-haired and blue-eyed, 
the only one who looked like our 
mother. I was not fourteen when she 
died — I 'm almost fifty, now. It may 
seem strange when I tell you that I 
don't believe that there has been an 
hour of any day since her death in 
which I have not thought of her and 
mourned for her. Strange, is n't it, 
that the life and death of a little child 
not three years old could take such a 
hold on another life ? I have never 
lost the consciousness of the presence 
of that child. 

" That makes me think of our ghost 
story. Almost every family has a 
ghost story, you know ? Ours has 
more than one, but the one foreshad- 
owed all the others." 

" Do tell it to me," said the friend 
sitting by her bed. 

" Well, the new house was just fin- 
ished, but we had not moved into it. 
There had been a violent shower ; 
father had come home from the field, 
and everybody had come in out of the 
rain. I think it was about four in the 
afternoon, when the storm ceased and 
the sun shone out. The new house 
stood on the edge of a ravine, and the 
sun was shining full upon it, when 
some one in the family called out and 
asked how Rhoda and Lucy came to 
be over in the new house, and the door 
open. Upon this all the rest of the 
family rushed to the front door, and 
there, across the ravine, in the open 
door of the new house, stood Rhoda 
with Lucy in her arms. A Some one 
said, ' She must have come from the 
sugar camp, and has taken shelter 
there with Lucy from the rain.' Upon 
this another called out, 'Rhoda!' but 
she did not answer. While we were 



8 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



gazing and talking and calling, Rhoda 
herself came down-stairs, where she 
had left Lucy fast asleep, and stood 
with us while we all saw, in the full 
blaze of the sun, the woman with the 
child in her arms slowly sink, sink, 
sink into the ground, until she disap- 
peared from sight. Then a great si- 
lence fell upon us all. In our hearts 
we all believed it to be a warning of 
sorrow — of what, we knew not. When 
Rhoda and Lucy both died, then we 
knew. Rhoda died the next autumn, 
November n ; Lucy a month later, 
December 10, 1833. Father went di- 
rectly over to the house and out into 
the road, but no human being, and not 
even a track, could be seen. Lucy has 
been seen many times since by differ- 
ent members of the family, in the same 
house, always in a red frock, like one 
she was very fond of wearing ; the last 
time by my brother Warren's little boy, 
who had never heard the story. He 
came running in, saying that he had 
seen ' a little girl up-stairs, in a red 
dress.' He is dead now, and such a 
bright boy. Since the apparition in 
the door, never for one year has our 
family been free from the shadow of 
death. Ever since, some one of us 
has been dying." .... 

" I don't like to think how much we 
are robbed of in this world by just the 
conditions of our life. How much bet- 
ter work I should have done, how 
much more success I might have won, 
if I had had a better opportunity in my 
youth. But for the first fourteen years 
of my life, it seemed as if there was 
actually nothing in existence but work. 
The whole family struggle was just for 
the right to live free from the curse of 
debt. My father worked early and 
late ; my mother's work was never 
done. The mother of nine children, 
with no other help than that of their 
little hands, I shall always feel that she 
was taxed far beyond her strength, and 
died before her time. I have never 
felt myself to be the same that I was 
before Rhoda's death. Rhoda and I 
pined for ^eauty ; but there was no 
beauty about our homely house, but 
that which nature gave us. We hun- 
gered and thirsted for knowledge ; but 
there were not a dozen books on our 
family shelf, not a library within our 



reach. There was little time to study, 
and had there been more, there was no 
chance to learn but in the district 
school-house, down the road. I never 
went to any other — not very much to 
that. It has been a long struggle. 
Now that I can afford to gather a few 
beautiful things about me, it is too late. 
My leisure I must spend here" (turn- 
ing toward her pillow). " Do you 
know " (with a pathetic smile) " I seem 
to myself like a worn-out old ship, laid 
up from further use. I may be re- 
paired a little; but I'll never be sea- 
worthy again." 

The friend, looking into her face, 
saw the dark eyes drowned in tears. 



CHAPTER II. 

EARLY STRUGGLES AND SUCCESS. 

The deaths of Rhoda and Lucy Cary 
were followed by the decline and pass- 
ing away of their mother, who died 
July 30, 1835. In 1837 Robert Cary 
married again. His second wife was 
a w r idow, suitable in years and child- 
less. Had her temperament been dif- 
ferent, her heart must have gone out 
in tenderness to the family of young, 
motherless girls toward whom she was 
now called to fill a mother's place. 
The limitations of her nature made 
this impossible. Such a mental and 
spiritual organism as theirs she could 
not comprehend, and with their at- 
tempted pursuits she had no sympa- 
thy. All time spent in study she con- 
sidered wasted. 

Alice, now seventeen, and Phoebe, 
thirteen, were beginning to write down 
in uncertain lines the spontaneous songs 
which seemed to sing themselves into 
being in their hearts and brains. A 
hard, uncultured, utilitarian woman, to 
whom work for work's sake was the 
ultimatum of life, could not fail to bring 
unhappiness to two such spirits, nor fail 
to sow discord in a household whose 
daily toil from birth had been lightened 
and brightened by an inborn idealism, 
and the unconscious presence of the 
very spirit of song. Ada Carnahan 
says : " Alice kept busily at work dur- 
ing the day, prosecuting her studies at 



EARLY EDUCATION. 



night This \\u> a fruitful souro 

sens ion between herself and step- 
mother, who could not believe that burn- 
ing candles for this purpose was either 
proper or profitable, that reading books 
w.is better than darning socks, or writ- 
ing poems better than making bread. 
But the country girls, uncultured in 
mind and rustic in manners, not need- 
ing to be told the immense distance 
which .separated them from the world 
of letters they longed to enter, would 
not be discouraged. It" they must darn 
and bake, they would also study and 
write, and at last publish : if candles 
were denied them, a saucer of lard with 
a bit of rag for wick could and did 
serve instead, and so, for ten long years, 
they studied and wrote and published 
without pecuniary recompense ; often 
discouraged and despondent, yet never 
despairing : lonely and grown over-sen- 
sitive, prone to think themselves neg- 
lected and slighted, yet hugging their 
;ude in unconscious superiority; 
looking out to Hhe grave-yard on the 
near hill-side with a regret for the past, 
and over and beyond it into the un- 
known distance with hope for the fut- 
ure/' Phoebe, speaking of the Cary 
sisters as if merely acquaintances, 
says : " They saw but few books or 
newspapers. On a small shelf of the 
cottage lay all the literary treasures of 
the family- These consisted of a Bible, 
Hymn Book, the ' History of the Jews,' 
' Lewis and Clarke's Travels,' k Pope's 
Essays,' and • Charlotte Temple,' a 
romance founded on fact. There might 
have been one or two more, now forgot- 
ten, and there was, I know, a mutilated 
novel by an unknown hand, called the 
1 Black Penitents,' the mystery of whose 
fate (for the closing pages of the work 
were gone) was a life-long regret to 
Alii Robert and Elizabeth Cary 

were early converts to Universalism, 
and the " Trumpet," says Phoebe, " read 
by them from the publication of its first 
numbers till the close of their lives, 
was for many years the only paper seen 
by Alice, and its Poet's Corner the food 
of her fancy, and source of her inspi- 
ration." Yet with such ill-selected and 
scanty food for the mind, and early- 
trained to be helpful in a household 
where great needs and small resources 
left little time for anything but the 



stern, practical part of life, these chil- 
dren began very early to see visions 
and to dream dreams. "At the age of 
fifteen Alice was left motherless, and, 
in one sense, companionless, her yet 
living sisters being too old or too young 
to till the place left vacant in her life. 
The only sins of writing of which she 
seemed to have been guilty up to this 
time were occasional efforts to alter and 
improve the poetry in her school reader, 
and a few pages of original rhymes 
which broke the monotony of her copy- 
books. All ambition, and all love of 
the pursuits of life, seemed for a time 
to have died with her beloved sister. 
Her walks, which were now solitary, 
generally terminated at the little family 
burial-place, on a green hill that rose in 
sight of home." All these conditions 
and influences in her life must be con- 
sidered in measuring her success, or in 
estimating the quality of her work. One 
of the severest criticisms passed on her 
early poems was that they were full of 
graves. Remembering the bereaved 
and lonely girl whose daily walk ended 
in the grave-yard on the hill-side, where 
her mother and sisters slept, how could 
her early song escape the shadow of 
death and the vibration of sorrow ? 
With her, it was the utterance of actual 
loss, not the morbid sentimentalism of 
poetic youth. In after years, Phoebe 
often spoke of the new keen sensation 
of delight which she felt when, for the 
first time, she saw her own verses in 
print. "Oh, if they only could look 
like that now," she said to me within a 
year of her death ; if they only could 
look like that now, it would be better 
than money." She was but fourteen 
when, without consulting even Alice, 
she sent a poem in secret to a Boston 
newspaper, and knew nothing of its ac- 
ceptance till, to her astonishment, she 
saw it copied in a home (Cincinnati) 
paper. She laughed and cried over it. 
'• I did not care any more if I were 
poor, or my clothes plain. Somebody 
cared enough for my verses to print 
them, and I was happy. I looked with 
compassion on my school-mates. You 
may know more than I do, I thought, 
but you can't write verses that are 
printed in a newspaper ; but I kept my 
joy and triumph to myself." 

Meanwhile Robert Cary built a new 



IO 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 



house on the farm, to which he re- 
moved with his second wife, leaving 
Alice and Phoebe, their two brothers, 
and young sister Elmina, to live to- 
gether in the old home. By this time 
newspapers and magazines, with a few 
new books, including the standard Eng- 
lish poets, were added to the cottage 
library, while several clergymen and 
other persons of culture coming into 
the rural neighborhood, brought new 
society and more congenial associations 
to the sisters. Alice had begun to pub- 
lish, and without hope of present re- 
ward was sending her verses through 
the land astray, they chiefly finding 
shelter in the periodicals and journals 
of the Universalist Church, with which 
she was most familiar, and in the daily 
and weekly journals of Cincinnati. The 
Boston " Ladies' Repository," the " La- 
dies' Repository" of Cincinnati, and 



" Graham's Magazine, 



were among the 



leading magazines which accepted and 
published her earlier verses. Phoebe 
says : " Alice's first literary adventure 
appeared in the ' Sentinel ' (now ' Star 
of the West'^ published in Cincinnati. 
It was entitled ' The Child of Sorrow,' 
and was written in her eighteenth year. 
The ' Star,' with the exception of an 
occasional contribution to some ot the 
dailies of the same city, was for many 
years her only medium of publication. 
After the establishing of the ' National 
Era ' at Washington in 1847, she wrote 
poetry regularly for its columns, and 
here she first tried her hand at prose, 
in a series of stories under a fictitious 
name. From Dr. Bailey of the ' Era ' 
she received the first money ever earned 
by her pen — ten dollars sent as a gra- 
tuity, when she had written for him 
some months. She afterwards made a 
regular engagement to furnish him with 
contributions to his paper for a small 
stipulated sum." Even now the real 
note of a natural singer will penetrate 
through all the noise of our day, and 
arrest the step and fix the ear of many 
a pilgrim amid the multitude. This 
was far more strikingly the fact in 
1850-51. Poets, so called, then were 
not so plenty as now ; the congregation 
of singers so much smaller, any new 
voice holding in its compass one sweet 
note was heard and recognized at 
once. There had come a lull in the 



national struggles. The tremendous 
events which have absorbed the emo- 
tion and consumed the energies of the 
nation for the last decade were only 
just beginning to show their first faint 
portents. Men of letters were at lei- 
sure, and ready to listen to any new 
voice in literature. Indeed, they were 
anxious and eager to see take. form and 
substance in this country an American 
literature which should be acknowl- 
edged and honored abroad. Judging 
by the books of American authors which 
he has left behind, no one at that time 
could have been quite so much on the 
alert for new American poets and poet- 
esses as Dr. Rufus W. Griswold. He 
generously set amid his " American 
Female Writers " names which perished 
like morning-glories, after their first 
outburst of song. He could not fail, 
then, to hear with delight those sweet 
strains of untutored music breaking 
from that valley of the West, heard 
now across all the land. The ballads 
and lyrics written by fcltet saucer of lard 
with its rag flame, in the hours when 
others slept, were bringing back at last 
true echoes and sympathetic responses 
from kindred souls, throbbing out in 
the great world of which as yet these 
young singers knew nothing. Alice's 
'• Pictures of Memory " had already 
been pronounced by Edgar Allan Poe 
to be one of the most musically perfect 
lyrics in the English language. The 
names of Alice and Phoebe Cary in the 
corners of newspapers and magazines, 
with the songs which followed, had 
fixed the attention and won the affec- 
tion of some of the best minds and 
hearts in the land. Men of letters, 
among them John G. Whittier. had writ- 
ten the sisters words of appreciation 
and encouragement. In 1849, tne e( ^" 
itor of the " Tribune," Horace Greeley, 
visited them in their own home, and 
thus speaks of the interview : " I found 
them, on my first visit to Cincinnati, 
early in the summer of 1849; and the 
afternoon spent in their tidy cottage on 
'Walnut Hills,' seven miles out of the 
city, in the company of congenial spir- 
its, since departed, is among the green- 
est oases in my recollection of scenes 
and events long past." 

In May, 1849, Phoebe writes : "Alice 
and I have been very busy collecting 



" THE SINGERS 



I [ 



and revising all our published poems, 

to send to New York. Rev. K. \V. 
Griswold, quite a noted author, is go- 
ing to publish them torus this summer, 
and we are to receive tor them a hun- 
dred dollars. 1 don't know as 1 feel 
better or worse, as 1 don't think it will 
do us much good, or any one else. 
This little volume, entitled' " Poems of 
Alice and Phoebe Cary." published by 
Moss and Brother of Philadelphia, 
was the first condensed result of their 
twelve years of study, privation, aspi- 
ration, labor, sorrow, and youth. 

To the year 1S50, Alice and Phoebe 
had never met any of their Eastern 
friends save Mr. Greeley. But after 
the publication of their little book, they 
went forth together to the land of prom- 
ise, and beheld face to face, for the first 
time, the sympathetic souls who had 
sent them so many words of encour- 
agement and praise. They went first 
New York, from thence to Boston, 
and from BosJmi these women min- 
strels took therH^ay to Amesbury, and 
all unknown, save by name, knocked 
at the door of the poet Whittier. Mr. 
Whittier has commemorated that visit 
by his touching poem of kt The Singer," 
published after the death of Alice. 

Years since (but names to me before), 
Two sisters sought at eve my door ; 
Two song-birds wandering from their nest, 
A gray old farm-house in the West. 

Timid and young, the elder had 
Even then a smile too sweetly sad ; 
The crown of pain that all must wear 
• early pressed her midnight hair. 

Yet, ere the summer eve grew long, 
Her modest lips were sweet with song, 
A memory haunted all her words 
Of clover-fields and singing-birds. 

Her dark, dilating eyes expressed 
The broad horizons of the West ; 
Her speech dropped prairie flowers; the 

gold 
Of harvest wheat about her rolled. 

Fore-doomed to song she seemed to me ; 

I queried not with destiny : 

I knew the trial and the need, 

Yet all the more, I said, God speed ! 

What could I other than I did ? 
Could I a singing-bird forbid ? 



hem the wind-stirred leaf? Rebuke 

The music of the forest brook ? 

She went with morning from my dour ; 
but left me richer than before : 
Thenceforth I knew her voice of cheer, 
The welcome of her partial ear. 

Wars pasted ; through all the land her 

name 
A pleasant household word became ; 
All felt behind the singer stood 
A sweet and gracious womanhood. 

Her life was earnest work, not play ; 
I [er tired feet climbed a weary way ; 
And even through her lightest strain 
We heard an undertone of pain. 

Unseen of her, her fair fame grew, 
The good she did she rarely knew, 
Unguessed of her in life the love 
That rained its tears her grave above 

The friendship thus sympathetically 
begun between these tender, upright 
souls never waned while human life 
endured. To their last hour, Alice and 
Phcebe cherished for this great poet 
and good man the affection and devo- 
tion of sisters. Of this first visit Al- 
ice wrote : " I like him very much, and 
was sorry to say good-by." After an 
absence of three months tjie sisters re- 
turned to the West, which was never- 
more to be their home. 

In November of the same year 
(1850), Alice Cary, broken in health, 
sad in spirit, with little money, but 
with a will which no difficulty could 
daunt, an energy and patience which 
no pain or sorrow could overcome, 
started alone to seek her fortune, and 
to make for herself a place and home 
in the city of New York. Referring to 
this the year before her death, she 
said : " Ignorance stood me in the 
stead of courage. Had I known the 
great world as I have learned it since, 
I should not have dared : but I did n't. 
Thus I came." 

The intellectual life of neither man 
nor woman can be justly judged with- 
out a knowledge of the conditions 
which impelled that life apd gave to 
it shape and substance. Alice Cary 
felt within her soul the divine impulse 
of genius, but hers was essentially a 
feminine soul, shy, loving, full of long- 
ings for home, overburdened with ten- 



12 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PUCE BE CARY. 



derness, capable of an unselfish, life- 
long devotion to one. Whatever her 
mental or spiritual gifts, no mere am- 
bition could ever have borne such a 
woman out into the world to seek and 
to make her fortune alone. Had Alice 
Cary married the man whom she then 
loved, she would, never have come to 
New York at all, to coin the rare gifts 
of her brain and soul into money for 
shelter and bread. Business interests 
had brought into her western neighbor- 
hood a man at that time much her su- 
perior in years, culture, and fortune. 
Naturally he sought the society of a 
young, lovely woman so superior to 
her surroundings and associations. To 
Alice he was the man of men. It is 
doubtful if the most richly endowed 
man of the world whom she met after- 
wards in her larger sphere, ever wore 
to her the splendor of manhood which 
invested this king of her youth. Alice 
Cary loved this man, and in the pro- 
foundest sense she never loved an- 
other. A proud and prosperous family 
brought all their pride and power to 
bear on a son„to prevent his marrying 
a girl to them uneducated, rustic, and 
poor. " I waited for one who never 
came back," she said. " Yet I believed 
he would come, till I read in a paper his 
marriage to another. Can you think 
what life would be — loving one, wait- 
ing for one who would never come ! " 



He did come at 
died. Alice was 



last, 
dving. 



His wife had 
The gray- 



haired man sat down beside the gray- 
haired woman. Life had dealt pros- 
perously with him, as is its wont with 
men. Suffering and death had taken 
all from her save the lustre of her won- 
drous eyes. From her wan and wasted 
face they shone upon Trim full of ten- 
derness and youth. Thus they met 
with life behind them — they who 
parted plighted lovers when life was 
young. He was the man whom she 
forgave for her blighted and weary life, 
with a smile of parting as divine as ever 
lit the face of woman. 

Alice Cary's was no weak nature. 
All its fine feminine gold was set in a 
will of iron. All its deep wells of ten- 
derness were walled and held in by jus- 
tice, common sense, and unyielding in- 
tegrity. She outlived that sorrowful 
youth to speak of it with pity, to drop 



a silent tear upon its memory as if it 
were the youth of another person. She 
lived to become preeminently one of 
the world's workers. She had many 
and flattering offers of marriage, but 
she never entered into a second en- 
gagement. With all her capacity for 
affection, hers was an eclectic and soli- 
tary soul. He who by the very patent 
of his nature was more to her than any 
other being could be, passed out from 
her life, but no other one ever took his 
place. 

It was in this desolation of her youth 
that Alice Cary resolved to go to New 
York, and make a home and life-work 
for herself. Many sympathetic souls 
had sent back answering echoes to her 
songs. We may believe that to her 
lonely heart the voice of human praise 
was sweet. If it could not recall the 
first promise of her morning, at least 
it foretold that hers would be a busy, 
workful, and successful day. It can- 
not be said that shefouad herself alone 
in New York, for, fi^n the first, her 
genius and true womanliness gathered 
around her a small circle of devoted 
friends. Women loved her, 

" And men, who toiled in storm and sun, 
Found her their meet companion." 

In the spring of 185.1, she wrote to 
her sisters to join her, and in April, 
Phcebe and her lovely young sister, 
then scarcely twenty years of age, left 
Cincinnati and came to Alice. Of this 
departure of the three from the home 
nest, Phoebe says : "Without advice or 
counsel of any but themselves, they re- 
solved to come to New York, and after 
the manner of children in the story- 
book, seek their fortune. Many sad 
and trying changes had come to the 
family, and home was not what it had 
been. They had comparative youth, 
though they were much older in years 
than in experience and knowledge of 
the world ; they had pleasant visions of 
a home and name that might be earned 
by literary labor, and so the next spring 
the bold venture was made. 

" Living in a very economical and 
humble way, writing for whatever pa- 
pers would accept their contributions, 
and taking any remuneration that was 
offered, however small, they did from 
the first somehow manage to live with- 



THE SUPPORT THAT POETRY GIVES. 



13 



out debt, and with little obligation." 

ate more perfectly the in- 
dustry and frugality which enabled 
them to do this, we must know how 
much smaller, at that time, was the re- 
ward for all literary labor, than it is 
now. Speaking of their coming to 
make New York their home, in his 
tch of the sisters in the " Eminent 
Women of the Age," Horace Greeley 
says : — 

" I do not know at whose suggestion 
they resolved to migrate to this city, 
and attempt to live here by literary la- 
bor : it surely was not mine. If my 
judgment was ever invoked, I am sure 
I must have responded that the hazard 
ncd to me too great, the induce- 
ments inadequate. And, before you 
dissent from this opinion, be pleased 
to remember that we had then scarcely 
any periodical literature worthy of the 
name outside of the political and com- 
mercial journals. I doubt that so much 
money was paid, in the aggregate, for 
contributions t^g// the magazines and 
weeklies issued from this city, as were 
paid in 1870 by the "Ledger' alone. 
Our magnificent system of dissemina- 
tion by means of railroad trains and 
news companies was then in its infan- 
cy : when I started ' The New Yorker.' 
fifteen years earlier, it had no exist- 
ence. It impeaches neither the dis- 
crimination, the justice, nor the enter- 
prise, of the publishers of 1850, to say 
that they hardly paid for contributions 
a tithe of the prices now freely accorded 
to favorite writers ; they paid what they 
could. I remember seeing Longfellow's 
grand k Endymion ' received in manu- 
script at the office of a popular and 
successful weekly, which paid fifteen 
dollars for it : a hundred such would 
now be quickly taken at one hundred 
and fifty dollars each, and the purchas- 
ers would look anxiously about them 
for more. 

•• Alice and Phoebe came among us, 
I have said, in 1850. They hired two 
or three modest rooms, in an unfash- 
ionable neighborhood, and-set to work 
resolutely to earn a living by the pen." 
The secret of the rare material suc- 
cess which attended them from the be- 
ginning is to be found in the fact that 
from the first they began to make a 
home : also in the fact that they pos- 



sed every attribute of character and 
habit necessary to the making of one. 

They had an unfeigned horror of 
"boarding." Any friend of theirs ever 

compelled to stay in a boarding-house 

was sure of an extra portion of their 
commiseration and sympathy. A home 
they must have, albeit it was up two 
flights of stairs. To the maintenance 
of this home they brought industry, 
frugality, and a hatred of debt. If they 
had money but to pay for a crust, then 
a crust must suffice. With their inflexi- 
ble integrity they believed that they had 
no right to more, till they had money 
to pay for that more. Thus from the 
beginning to the end they always lived 
within their income. They never wore 
or had anything better than they could 
afford. With true feminine instinct, 
they made their little " flat" take on at 
once the cosiest look of home. A man- 
genius seeking the city, as they did, of 
course would have taken refuge in a 
boarding-house attic, and "enjoyed 
himself" in writing poems and leaders 
amid dirt and forlornity. Net so these 
women-poets. I have heard Alice tell 
how she papered one room with her own 
hands, and Phcebe how she painted the 
doors, framed the pictures, and "bright- 
ened up " things generally. Thus from 
the first they had a home, and by the 
very magnetism that made it bright, 
cheery, in truth a home, they drew 
around them friends who were their 
friends no less till they breathed their 
last sigh. One of these was Mr. Gree- 
ley. He always cherished for these sis- 
ters three ' the respect and affection 
which every true man instinctively feels 
for the true women who have their be- 
ing within the circle of his life. In their 
friendship one religious faith, kindred 
pursuits, mutual friends, and long asso- 
ciation strengthened and cemented the 
fraternal bond to the last. Mr. Greeley 
himself thus refers to their early tea- 
parties. 

" Being already* an acquaintance. I 
called on the sisters soon after they 
had set up their household gods among 
us. and met them at intervals there- 
after at their home or at the houses of 
mutual friends. Their parlor was not 
so large as some others, but quite as 
neat and cheerful : and the few liter- 
ary persons, or artists, who occasion- 



H 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



ally met at their informal invitation, to 
discuss with them a cup of tea and 
the newest books, poems, and events, 
might have found many more preten- 
tious, but few more enjoyable gather- 
ings. I have a dim recollection that 
the first of these little tea-parties was 
held up two flights of stairs, in one of 
the less fashionable sections of the 
city ; but good things were said there 
that I recall with pleasure yet ; while 
of some of the company, on whom I 
have not since set eyes, I cherish a 
pleasant and grateful remembrance. 
As their circumstances gradually, 
though slowly improved, by dint of 
diligent industry and judicious econ- 
omy, they occupied more eligible quar- 
ters ; and the modest dwelling they 
have for some years owned and im- 
proved, in the very heart of this em- 
porium, has long been known to the 
literary guild, as combining one of the 
best private libraries with the sunniest 
drawing-room (even by gas-light) to be 
found between King's Bridge and the 
Battery." 

Thus began in 1850-51 the life and 
work of Alice find Phcebe Cary in New 
York. The next year saw the coming 
out of Alice's first series of " Clover- 
nook Papers." They were full of the 
freshness and fragrance of her native 
fields ; full of simple, original, graphic 
pictures of the country life, and the 
men and women whom she knew best ; 
full of the exquisite touches of a spon- 
taneous, child-like genius, and they 
were gathered up as eagerly by the 
public as the children gather wild 
flowers. Their very simplicity and 
freshness won all hearts. They sold 
largely in this country and in Great 
Britain. English critics bestowed on 
them the highest and most discrimi- 
nating praise, as pure products of 
American life and genius, while the 
press of this country universally ac- 
knowledged their delicious simplicity 
and originality. Alice published a 
second series in 1853, with unabated 
success, while in 1854, Ticknor and 
Fields published the " Clovernook 
Children," which were as popular with 
younger readers, as the " Papers " had 
been with their elders. In 1853, " Lyra 
and Other Poems, by Alice Cary," 
were published by Redfield. This vol- 



ume called out some severe criticisms 
on the uniform sadness of its tone ; 
one especially in " Putnam's Monthly," 
which caused Alice much pain. Nev- 
ertheless it was a successful book, and 
was brought out a second time com- 
plete, with the addition of " The 
Maiden of Tlascala," a narrative poem 
of seventy-two pages, by Ticknor and 
Fields, in 1855. Alice's first novel, 
" Hagar, a Story of To-Day," was 
written for and appeared in the " Cin- 
cinnati Commercial," and was after- 
wards brought out by Redfield in 1852. 
" Married, Not Mated," appeared in 
1856. ''Pictures of Country Life, by 
Alice Cary," were published by Derby 
and Jackson in 1859. This book 're- 
produced much of the freshness, the 
exquisite grace and naturalness, of her 
" Clovernook Papers." She was free 
on her native heath, when she painted 
rural scenery and rural life. These 
Papers were translated into French in 
Paris, and " The Literary Gazette " 
(London), which is no% accustomed to 
flatter American authors, said : "Every 
tale in this book might be selected as 
evidence of some new beauty or un- 
hackneyed grace. There is nothing 
feeble, nothing vulgar, and, above all, 
nothing unnatural or melodramatic. To 
the analytical subtlety and marvelous 
naturalness of the French school of 
romance she has added the purity and 
idealization of the home affections and 
home life belonging to the English, 
giving to both the American richness 
of color and vigor of outline, and her 
own individual power and loveliness." 

" Lyrics and Hymns," with portrait, 
beautifully bound and illustrated, which 
still remain the standard selection of 
her poems, were issued by Hurd and 
Houghton, in 1866. In 186-, "The 
Lover's Diary," in exquisite form, and 
" Snow Berries, A Book for Young 
Folks," were bought by Ticknor and 
Fields. The same year a novel,.." The 
Bishop's Son," which first appeared in 
the " Springfield (Mass.) Republican," 
was published by Carleton, New York. 
"The Born Thrall," a novel in which 
Alice hoped to embody her deepest 
thoughts and maturest convictions con- 
cerning the sorrows and wrongs of 
woman, was interrupted by her last 
sickness, while passing through the 



LITERARY UAH Us. 



*5 



•• Revolution/' and never finished. She 
left, beside, a completed novel in man- 
uscript, not yet published. Thus, he- 
side writing constantly for "Harper's 
Magazine," the " Atlantic Monthly," 
•• Riverside Magazine," " New York 
Ledger," " New York Weekly." " New- 
York Independent," "Packard's Month- 
ly." and chance periodicals innumera- 
ble, which entreated her name for their 
pages, the active brain and soul of 
Alice Car}' in twenty years produced 
eleven volumes, every word and 
thought of which was wrought from 
her own being, and every line of which 
was written bv her own hand. In the 
same number of years, Phoebe, beside 
aiding in the editing of several books, 
the most important of which was 
" Hymns for All Christians.'' pub- 
lished by Hurd and Houghton in 1S69, 
brought out " Poems and Parodies," 
published by Ticknor and Fields, 1854, 
and '• Poems of Faith, Hope, and 
Love,'' issued by Hurd and Houghton 
in 1868. Beside, Alice and Phcebe 
left, at their death, poems enough un- 
collected to give each name two added 
volumes, one of each a book of Child- 
Poems. The disparity in the actual 
intellectual product of the two sisters, 
in the same number of years, is very 
striking. It is the result, not so much 
of mental inequality, as of the compel- 
ling will, energy, industry, and the pa- 
tience of labor of the elder sister. 



CHAPTER III. 

THEIR HOME. — HABITS OF LIFE AND 
OF LABOR. — THE SUMMER OF 1869. 

Before 1856, Alice and Phcebe had 
removed to the pretty house in Twen- 
tieth Street, which was destined to be 
their last earthly home. Within a 
short time Alice bought this house, 
and was its sole owner at the time of 
her death. An English writer has 
said : " Single women can do little 
to form a circle : they can but adorn 
one when found." This certainly was 
never true of the two single women 
whose earthly days we are tracing. 
From the beginning, the house in 
Twentieth Street became the centre 



of one of the choicest and most 1 
mopolitan circles in New York. Tin- 
two sisters drew about them not only 
the best, but the most genial minds. 
True men and women equally found 
in each, companion, counselor, and 
friend. They met every true woman 
that came to them with sympathy and 
tenderness, feeling that they shared 
with her all the mutual toils and sor- 
rows of womanhood. They met every 
true man. as brother, with an open, 
honest, believing gaze. Intensely in- 
terested in all great public questions, 
loving their country, devoted to it, de- 
voted to everything good and true ; 
alive to everything of interest in poli- 
tics, religion, literature, and society ; 
the one pensive and tender, the other 
witty and gay, men of refinement, 
culture, and heart found in them the 
most delightful companions. Beside 
(which was much), no man welcome, 
was afraid to go to their house. Inde- 
pendent in their industry and resources, 
they asked few favors. They had 
no "designs," even the most harmless, 
on any living man. Men the most 
marriageable, or unmanageable, could 
visit the Carys without fear or ques- 
tion. The atmosphere of the house 
was transparent as the sunshine. 
They loved women, they delighted in 
the society of agreeable men, and fear- 
lessly said so. The weekly refresh- 
ment of the house was hospitality, its 
daily habit, labor. I have never known 
any other woman so systematically and 
persistently industrious as Alice Cary. 
Hers was truly the genius of patience. 
No obstacle ever daunted it, no pain 
ever stilled it, no weariness ever over- 
came it, till the last weariness of death. 
As Phcebe said, "The pen literally fell 
from her hand at last," and only then, 
because in the valley of the shadow of 
death, which she had already entered, 
she could no longer see to trace the 
trembling, uncertain lines. But few 
men or women ccUld look back upon 
fifty years of more persistent industry. 
I doubt if she ever kept a diary, or 
wrote down a rule for her life. She 
did not need to do so ; her life itself 
was the rule. There was a beautiful, 
yet touching uniformity in her clays. 
Her pleasure was her labor. Of rest, 
recreation, amusement, as other women 



i6 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AA T D PHCEBE GARY 



sought these, she knew almost nothing. 
Her rest and recreation were the in- 
tervals from pain, in which she could 
labor. It was not always the labor of 
writing. No, sometimes it was mak- 
ing a cap, or trimming a bonnet, or 
rummaging to the depths of feminine 
boxes ; yet no less it was work of 
some sort, never play. The only hour 
of rest any day brought, was the hour 
after dinner, the twilight hour, when* 
one sister always came to the other's 
room, and with folded hands and low 
voices they talked over, almost always, 
the past, the friends loved, scattered, 
or gone before. 

The morning might be for mirth, but 
the evening belonged to memory. All 
Alice's personal surroundings were 
dainty and womanly. It was no dreary 
den, in which she thought and wrought. 
It was a sunny room over the library, 
running the depth of the house, with 
windows at both ends. A carpet of 
woody tints, relieved with scarlet flow- 
ers, covered the floor. On the pale 
walls, tinted a delicate green, hung 
pictures, all of which had to her some 
personal association. Over the mantel 
hung an oil painting, called " Early 
Sorrow," the picture of a poor, wind- 
beaten young girl, her yellow hair 
blown about her face, and the rain of 
sorrow in her eyes, painted by a strug- 
gling, unfortunate artist, whom Alice 
had done more to help and encourage, 
than all other persons in the world. 

Autumn leaves and sea-mosses im- 
prisoned in frames, with rich Bohemian 
vases, adorned the black marble mantel. 
Beside the back window, within the al- 
cove for which it had been expressly 
made, stood the bed, her couch of suf- 
fering and musing, and on which she 
died. The bedstead was of rosewood 
traced with a band of coral, and set 
with arabesques of gilt ; its white cov- 
erlet and pillow-cases edged with deli- 
cate lace. Above itJpung an exquisite 
engraving of Cupio^the" gift of Mrs. 
Greeley, brought by her from Paris. 
At the foot of the bed hung a colored 
engraving of Rosa Bonheur's " Oxen," 
a farmer ploughing down the furrows 
of a rolling field. " It rests me," she 
would say ; " I look at it, and live over 
my youth." Often in the afternoon, 
while taking her half hour's rest from 



work, as she leaned back among the 
pillows, the dark eyes were lifted and 
fixed upon this picture. In the winter, 
curtains of fawn-colored satin, edged 
and tasseled with soft red, shaded this 
alcove from the front room. The front 
windows were hung with the same. 
Between them, a mirror reached from 
floor to ceiling. 

Beside one of these windows stood 
Alice's desk. It was of rosewood, 
finely finished and commodious, a bu- 
reau, desk, and book-case combined. 
The drawers below were the recepta- 
cle of her beloved India shawls, for 
which she had the same love that some 
women have for diamonds, and others 
for rare paintings. The drawer of her 
desk contained her manuscript papers ; 
the shelves above, the books that she 
was reading, and her books of refer- 
ence ; while above all hung a favorite 
landscape in water-colors. On the 
other side of the mantel-piece stood 
corresponding bureau and shelves, 
filled with books. Here were copies 
of her own and Phoebe's works, which 
never appeared in the library or draw- 
ing-room below. Above these book- 
shelves, hung an autumn landscape. 
On one side of the alcove there was 
an engraving of Correggio's " Christ ; " 
on the other, a copy of " The Hugue- 
not Lovers." Beside the hall door, op- 
posite her desk, there hung a portrait 
in oil of their father, by the hand which 
painted " Early Sorrow ; " on the other 
side of the door there was at one time 
a portrait of Phcebe. Easy chairs and 
foot-stools completed the furniture of 
this room, in which Alice Cary lived 
for fifteen years, the room in which she 
slowly and sadly relinquished life, and 
in which at last she died. 

At the opposite end of the hall was 
a room which corresponded exactly 
with that of Alice, the room which 
had been Elmina's, in which she died, 
and which from her death, was ^ Phoe- 
be's room." Rich purple curtains used 
to hang from the alcove, shading the 
face of the lovely sufferer, and curtains 
of the same hue draped the windows. 
But Phoebe eschewed all draperies, 
and, summer or winter, nothing denser 
than white shades and the thinnest of 
lace curtains hung between her and the 
strongest sunshine. A bright red car- 



DAILY II A JUTS. 



1/ 



pet, relieved by small medallions, cov- 
ered the floor. Over the mantel-piece 
for a long- time hung a superb copy ot 
'•The Huguenot Lovers," in a gilt 

frame. This was replaced at last by a 
copy of Turner, in oil. a resplendent 
Venetian scene. Beside the alcove 
hung the chromo of YYhittier's " Bare- 
foot" Boy." which was a great favorite 
with Phoebe, while clusters of flowers, 
in lithograph and water-colors, added 
to the bright-cheerfulness of the room. 
Between the windows was a full length 
mirror ; on one side of the room was 
Phoebe's desk, of the same form and 
wood, though of a smaller size than 
that of Alice. In its appointments it 
was a perfect model of neatness. It 
was always absolutely in order ; while, 
beside books, its shelves were orna- 
mented with vases and other pretty 
trinkets. On the opposite side of the 
room stood a table, the receptacle of the 
latest newspapers, magazines, and nov- 
els, that, like the desk, was ever in or- 
der, and in addition to its freight of 
literature always made room for a 
work-basket we'll stocked with spools, 
scissors, and all the implements of an 
accomplished needle- woman. 

Both sisters always retained their 
country habit of retiring and rising 
early ; they were rarely out of bed af- 
ter ten at night, and more rarely in it 
after six of the morning. Till the sum- 
mer of 1869. Alice always rose and 
went to market. Phoebe getting up as 
early and going to her sewing. From 
that time till her death, Phoebe did the 
marketing, and the purchases of the 
day were all made before breakfast. 
From that date, though not equal to 
the exertion of dressing and going out, 
Alice arose no less early. 

She was often at her desk by five 
o'clock a. m.. rarely later than six. 
Not a week that she did not more than 
once tell us at the breakfast table that 
she had already written a poem that 
morning, sometimes more than one. 
Waking in the night, or before light, 
it was often her solace to weave her 
songs while others slept ; and the first 
thing she did on rising was to write 
them down from memory. During El- 
mina's decline it had been the custom 
of Alice and Phoebe to meet the first 
thing in the morning by her bed, to ask 
2 



the dear one how she had rested, and 
to begin the communion of the day. 
From her death it was the habit of 
Phcebe to go directly to Alice as soon 
as she arose. Sitting down on the 
edge of the bed, each would tell the 
story of her night, though it was Alice 
who, being very wakeful, really had a 
story of pains and thoughts and dreams 
to tell. I spent the summer, autumn, 
and a part of the winter of 1869 with 
them, and the memories of those days 
are as unique as they are precious. 
" We three " met each morning at the 
breakfast table, in that pleasant, pict- 
ured dining-room, which so many re- 
member. The same dainty china which 
made the Sunday evening teas so ap- 
petizing, made the breakfast table beau- 
tiful ; often with the addition of a vase 
full of fresh flowers, brought by Phoe- 
be from market. If Alice was able to 
be there at all, she had been able be- 
fore coming down to deck her abun- 
dant locks with a dainty morning cap, 
brightened with pink ribbons, and, in 
her white robe and breakfast shawl, 
with its brilliant border, never looked 
lovelier than when pouring coffee for 
two ardent adorers of her own sex. 
She was always her brightest at this 
time. She had already done work 
enough to promise well for the rest of 
her day. She was glad to see us, glad 
to be able to be there, ready to tell us 
each our fortune anew, casting our 
horoscope afresh in her tea-cup each 
morning. Phcebe, in her street dress, 
just home from market, " had seen a 
sight," and had something funny to 
tell. More, she had any amount of 
funny things to tell. The wittiest Phce- 
be Cary that ever made delightful an 
evening drawing-room was tame, com- 
pared with this Phcebe Cary of the 
breakfast table, with only two women 
to listen to her, and to laugh till they 
cried and had strength to laugh no 



longer, over her ^■bsistible remarks, 
which she made w!xn the assumed so- 
lemnity of an owl. Then came the 
morning journals and the mail ; and 
with discussing the state of the nation, 
growing " wrought up " over wrong 
and injustice everywhere, sharing the 
pleasant gossip of friends, the break- 
fast was often lengthened to a nearly 
two hours' sitting. Alice then went to 



18 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



the kitchen to order her household for 
the day, when each of the three went 
to the silence and labor of her own 
room, seeing no more of each other, 
unless meeting over a chance cup of 
tea at lunch, till they reassembled at 
the dinner table, each to tell the pleas- 
ant part of the story of her day, and 
to repeat the delightful intercourse of 
the morning. After dinner there was 
a general adjournment to Alice's or 
Phoebe's room, as it might happen. 
It was at this time, usually, that each 
sister read to the other the poem that 
she had written or corrected and copied 
that day. I can see Phoebe now, softly 
opening the door with her neat manu- 
script in her hand. Sitting down be- 
side Alice's couch, in a shy, deprecat- 
ing, modest fashion, most winsome to 
behold, she would read in low voice 
the poem. We never criticised it. The 
appealing tones of our reader made the 
very thoughts of criticism impossible. 
If it was funny, we laughed ; if it was 
sad, we cried, and our reader with us ; 
and in either case she was entirely sat- 
isfied with the, appreciation of her audi- 
ence. Then Alice would slowly go to 
her desk, draw forth tumbled sheets of 
manuscript, the opposite of Phoebe's 
in their chirography, and, settling in 
her easy-chair, begin in a low, crooning 
tone, one of those quaint, wild ballads 
of hers, which long before had made 
her preeminently the balladist of Amer- 
ica. Many of these I cannot see now 
without seeming to hear again the 
thrilling vibration of her voice, as we 
heard it when she read the song her- 
self the very day that it flowed from 
heart and pen. Any time or anywhere, 
if I listen, I can hear her say, — 

"In the stormy waters of Gallaway 
My boat had been idle the livelong 

day, 
Tossing and tumbling to and fro, 
For the wind waj 

was low. 



igh and the tide 



" The tide was low and the wind was 

high, 
And we were heavy, my heart and I, 
For not a traveler, all the day, 
Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway." 

Phoebe's lays, when grave or sad, 
almost always savored of her native 



soil and home life ; but Alice, on the 
rhythm of her lyric, would bear us far 
out from the little room and the roar- 
ing streets, into the very lane of ro- 
mance, to the days of chivalry and 
"flowery tapestrie." The knight and 
lady, the crumbling castle, the tumbling 
and rushing sea, became for the mo- 
ment as real to us as to her. 

The house below was as attractive 
as above. 

A small, richly stained window at 
the head of the stairs flooded the small 
hall with gorgeous light. This hall 
was frescoed in panels of oak ; floor 
and stairs covered with Brussels carpet 
of oak and scarlet tints. On its walls 
hung colored engravings of oxen, cows, 
and horses ploughing a field. 

To the right of the front entrance 
stood, wide open, the door of the 
spacious parlor, within whose walls 
for more than fifteen years gathered 
weekly so many gifted and congenial 
souls. This parlor was a large square 
room with five windows, two back and 
two front, with a deep bay-window be- 
tween. These windows were hung with 
lace, delicately embroidered, from which 
were looped back curtains of pale green 
brocatelle lined with white silk. On 
either embrasure of the bay-window, in 
Gothic, gold illuminated frames, stood 
two altar pieces, about three feet high, 
from an old church in Milan, each 
bearing on a field of gold an angel in 
azure and rosy vestments, one playing 
on a dulcimer, the other holding a 
golden palm. In antique letters in 
black, beneath, was written on one 
tablet Psalm cl. 3, and on the other, 
the succeeding verse of the same. A 
large oil-painting of sheep lying on a 
hill-side hung at one time over the white 
marble mantel ; later, a fine Venetian 
scene from Turner, while on either 
side, very tall vases of ruby glass threw 
a wine-like hue on the silvery wall. 
On one side of the mantel there was a 
rosewood etagere, lined with mirrors, 
and decorated with vases and books. 
On the other side there was an exqui- 
site copy in oil of Guido's " Aurora," 
brought by a friend from Italy. Oppo- 
site the bay-window a very broad 
mirror rose from floor to ceiling. 

Lovely Madonnas and other rare 
paintings covered the walls, some of 



MK. GREELEY'S READING. 



19 



which had been placed there by friends 
who had no proper room for them. 
The carpet was of velvet In deep crim- 
son and green ; the chairs and sofas, 
which were luxurious, were also cush- 
ioned in velvet of various blending 
hues. 

The most remarkable article in the 
room was the large centre table, made 
of many thousand mosaics of inlaid 
wood, each in its natural tint. Clus- 
ters of pansies, of the most perfect 
outline and hue, formed the border of 
the table, while the extreme edge was 
inlaid in tints scarce wider than a 
thread. It was a work of endless 
patience, and of the finest art. It was 
made by a poor Hungarian artist, who 
used nearly a whole life-time in this 
work of his hands. He brought it to 
this country hoping to realize for it a 
large sum, but was compelled by neces- 
sity, at last, to part with it for a small 
amount. It passed from various own- 
ers before it was bought by Alice Cary 
and placed in her parlor as its central 
shrine, around which gathered her 
choicest friends. Among the few 
books lying on a small stand within 
the bay-window was " Ballads of New 
England," written and presented by 
Whittier, with this inscription : — 

TO ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 

Who from the farm-field singing came, 
The song whose echo now is fame, 
And to the great false city took 
The honest hearts of Clovernook, 
And made their home beside the sea 
The trysting-place of Liberty. 

From their old friend, 
John G. Whittier. 
Christmas, 1869. 

Another was a dainty book in green 
and gold, entitled " The Golden Wed- 
ding," presented " To Phoebe Cary, 
with the kind regards of Joseph and 
Rebecca W. Taylor," the parents of 
Bayard Taylor. 

Across the hall, opposite the parlor, 
was the library, which so many will 
remember as the very penetrale of this 
home, in which " the precious few " 
were so wont to gather for converse 
and choice communion. These words 
recall one wild night of rain and storm, 
which had hindered everybody else 



from coming but Mr. Greeley, when 
he said, in the hour before church, 
"Come, girls, let us read ' Morte 
d'Arthur ; ' " and, taking Tennyson 
from the book-case, read from begin- 
ning to end aloud, '-The Passing of 
Arthur." Mr. Greeley's tones, full of 
deep feeling, I shall hear while memory 
endures, as he read : — 

" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I 

go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and mv 

eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 

But when the whole Round Table is dis- 
solved, 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new, 
And God fulfills Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within Himself make pure ! but 

thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer, 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend ? ^ 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of Gocl. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way — 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard 

lawns 



20 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound." 

Alice settled far back in her easy- 
chair, listening with eloquent eyes. 
Phoebe sat on a low hassock, playing 
with the long necklace on her neck, 
every bead of which marked a friend's 
remembrance. Dear sisters ! passed 
forever beyond the storm, we whom the 
storm even here has parted, may at 
least recall that hour of peace shared 
together ! 

This little library was furnished in 
oak, its walls frescoed in oak with 
panels of maroon shaded to crimson. 
Two windows faced the street, the oppo- 
site end being nearly taken up by a 
large window of stained glass in which 
gold and sapphire lights commingled. 
Opposite the hall door was a black 
marble mantel surmounted by a mirror 
set in ebony and gold. On either side, 
covering the entire length of the room, 
were open oaken book-shelves, filled 
with over a thousand volumes, the lar- 
ger proportion handsome library edi- 
tions of the standard books of the world. 
The windows were hung with satin cur- 
tains of an oaken tinge edged with ma- 
roon. Between them was a copy of the 
Cary coat-of-arms, of which Phoebe was 
so fond, richly framed. Below, a little 
gem in oil, of a Northampton (Massa- 
chusetts) scene, hung over a small table 
covered with a crimson cloth, on which 
lay a very large Family Bible. To the 
left of the front windows hung an oil 
portrait of Madame Le Brun, the fa- 
mous French artist, from an original 
painting by herself, now hanging in the 
Florentine Museum. On the other side 
of the door hung, in oval frames, the 
portraits of Alice and Phoebe, painted 
not long after their arrival in New 
York. The marble-topped table before 
the stained glass window was piled with 
costly books, chiefly souvenirs from 
friends. Two deep arm-chairs were 
near, one cushioned in green, the other 
in blue velvet ; the green, Alice's chair ; 
the blue, Phoebe's. The Brussels car- 
pet was the exact counterpart of the 
walls, shaded in oak, maroon and crim- 
son. You have discovered before now, 
that the Cary home was never furnished 



by an upholsterer ? Its furniture, its 
trinkets and treasures, were the com- 
bined accumulation of twenty years. It 
was filled with keepsakes from friends, 
and some of its choicest* articles had 
been bought at intervals, as she could 
afford to do so, by Alice at Marley's 
shop for antique furniture on Broad- 
way, which she took extreme pleasure in 
visiting. Here, also, she could gratify 
her taste for old exquisite china, in 
which she took the keenest delight. 
Many who drank tea with her have 
not forgotten the delicate, egg-like cups 
out of which they drank it. She had a 
china tea-set in her possession over a 
hundred years old. Many have the im- 
pression that Phoebe was the house-, 
keeper of this home. Until the summer 
of 1869, this was in no sense true. Be- 
yond the occasional spontaneous prep- 
aration of a favorite dish, Phoebe had no 
care of the house. For nearly twenty 
years Alice arose, went to market, and 
laid out the entire household plan of 
the day, before Phoebe appeared at 
breakfast. 

Alice Cary managed her house with 
quiet system and without ado. Her 
home was beautifully kept, the kitchen 
and garret as perfect in their appoint- 
ments and as perfect in their order as 
her parlor. She was an indulgent mis- 
tress, respecting the rights of every 
person in her household as much as 
her own, and two servants (sisters) who 
were with her when she died, one of 
whom closed Phoebe's eves in death, 
lived with her many years. 

Phoebe did not " take to housework," 
but was a very queen of the needle. 
Over work-basket and cutting-board 
she reigned supreme, and here held 
Alice at disadvantage. Alice could trim 
a bonnet or make a cap to perfection ; 
with these, the creative quality of her 
needle ended. A dress subdued her, 
and brought her a humble suppliant to 
the sewing-throne of Phoebe. - There 
were at least two weeks in early spring, 
and two in the autumn, which were 
called "Miss Lyon's weeks," when 
Alice was literally under the paw of a 
lion. Miss Lyon was the dressmaker. 
She was quiet, kindly, artistic, and nec- 
essary ; therefore, in her kingdom, an 
unmitigated tyrant. Literature did not 
dare to peep in on Miss Lyon's weeks, 



"MISS LYON'S WEEKS. n 



21 



or if it did. it was before she came, or 
while she was at breakfast Books and 
papers she would not suffer in her sight 
after work began. She was always 
wanting " half a yard more " of some- 
thing. She was always sending us out 
for "trimmings," and, as we rarely 
found the right ones, was continually 
sending us again. Poor Alice! she 
went out six times one hot morning to 
find a stick of braid, which Miss Lyon 
insisted should have a peculiar kink. 
Once back, we had to sit down beside 
her. to " try on " and to assist. If we 
did not, "we could not have our new 
frocks, that was all," for Miss Lyon 
"could not possibly go through them 
alone, and she had not another day, 
not one, before winter." Thus, while 
purgatory reigned on Alice's side of the 
house, Phcebe in hers sat enthroned in 
serene satisfaction. She was no slave 
to Miss Lyon, not she. On the con- 
trary, while Miss Lyon snubbed us, she 
crossed the hall to consult Phcebe in a 
tone of deference, which (profession- 
ally) she never condescended to bestow 
on her victims. In Miss Lyon's days, 
nobody would have suspected that the 
house held a blue-stocking. Dry goods, 
shreds, and tags prevailed above stairs, 
and Alice's room looked like a first- 
class dressmaker's shop, in which Miss 
Lyon ruled between two forlorn ap- 
prentices. It is not easy to see Alice 
Cary in a comical light, and yet Alice 
Cary in Phoebe's door, holding up an 
unfinished sacque, in which she had 
sewed a sleeve upside down, and made 
one an inch shorter than the other, with 
her look of blended consternation and 
despair, was a comical sight. Phoebe 
was her only refuge in such a plight, 
and to rip the sleeve, trim it, right it, 
and baste it in again, was the work of 
a very few minutes for her deft fingers. 
Sacques, dresses, cloaks, and hats, all 
cut, and fitted, and made, came out 
from her hands absolutely perfect, to 
the wonder and envy of the unfortu- 
nates across the hall. Miss Lyon, al- 
ways leaving her sceptre up-stairs, at the 
table was a sorrowful, communicative 
woman, who poured the story of her 
troubles, her loneliness, and poor health 
into sympathizing ears. She tormented 
us, but we liked her, and were sorry for 
her. We comforted her when she was 



sick, and cried when she died, and re- 
membered her with a sigh. It was a 
we. try woman's poor little lite after all ! 
She too had her dream of future, home, 
and rest ; but the money that she 
worked so hard to earn, and denied 
herself the necessities of life to save, 
she saved to will to a well-to-do rel- 
ative who had neglected and forsaken 
her while she lived. By July, Miss 
Lyon's reign was over, but the king- 
doms she had conquered were all vis- 
ible, marked by the new dresses lying 
in a row on the bed in the little attic 
chamber. Alas ! on that same bed 
some of them lay after Alice's death, 
untouched. The poor hand that made 
them, and knotted their dainty ribbons, 
and the lovely form that was to have 
worn them, both alike locked from all 
device in the fastness of the grave ! 

The only shadow resting on the 
house was that of sickness and hover- 
ing death. Nothing could have been 
more absolutely harmonious than the 
daily abiding intercourse of these sis- 
ters. This was not because they al- 
ways thought alike, nor because they 
never in any way crossed each other, 
nor was it based on their devoted affec- 
tion and perfect faith in each other 
alone. Persons may believe in each 
other, and love each other dearly, and 
yet live in a constant state of friction. 
It was chiefly because each cherished 
a most conscientious consideration for 
the peculiarities of the other, and be- 
cause in the minutest particular they 
treated each other with absolute polite- 
ness. There is such an expression 
used as "society manner." These sis- 
ters had no manner for society more 
charming in the slightest particular, 
than they had for each other. No pun 
ever came into Phoebe's head too 
bright to be flashed over Alice, and 
Alice had no gentleness for strangers 
which she withheld from Phoebe. The 
perfect gentlewomen which they were 
in the parlor, they were always, under 
every circumstance. There was not 
a servant in the house, who, in his or 
her place, was not treated with as ab- 
solute a politeness as a guest in the 
parlor. This spirit of perfect breeding 
penetrated every word and act of the 
household. What Alice and Phoebe 
Cary were in their drawing-room, they 



22 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



were always in the absolute privacy of 
their lives. Each obeyed one inflexi- 
ble law. Whatever she felt or en- 
dured, because of it she was not to in- 
flict any suffering upon her sister ; no, 
not even if that sister had inadvert- 
ently been the cause of it. If she was 
" out of sorts," she went into her own 
room, shut her door and " had it out " 
by herself. Whatever shape her Apol- 
lyon might take, she fought with him, 
and slew him, alone. When she ap- 
peared outside, it might strike one that 
a new line of pain had for the moment 
lit upon her face ; that was the only 
sign of the foe routed. The bright 
sally, the quiet smile, the perfection 
of gentle breeding were all there, un- 
dimmed and indestructible. 

The first of July, Phoebe went to 
Waldemere, Bridgeport, Conn., to 
visit the family of Mr. P. T. Barnum, 
and then to Cambridge, to see Mr. and 
Mrs. H. O. Houghton ; from thence to 
visit the family of Rev. Dr. B. F. Tefft 
in Bangor, Maine. Early in June, 
Alice had been persuaded to visit a 
beloved niece in the mountain region 
of Pennsylvania. She remained a 
week, and on her return told how the 
sweet country air and the smell of the 
woods had brought back her girlhood. 
" But I could not stay," she said ; " I 
had so much to do." Nor would she 
be induced to go again, though loving 
friends urged, indeed entreated her to 
leave her desk, and the heat and tur- 
moil of the city. 

Physically and mentally she needed 
change and respite from the overstrain 
of too long continued toil. A sum- 
mer in the country, at this crisis in her 
health, could not have failed to reno- 
vate, if not to restore life. But she 
clung to her home, her own room and 
surroundings, and to her work, and re- 
luctantly Phcebe went forth to the kind 
friends awaiting her, alone. That was 
a mystical month that followed, that 
month of July. The very walls of the 
houses seemed changed into burning 
brass. The sun, uncooled by showers, 
rose and set, tracking all his course 
with a consuming fire. Everybody 
who could escape, had fled the city. 
During the entire month I do not re- 
member that one person, not of the 
small household, crossed the threshold. 



We closed blinds and doors, and were 
alone. Apart at work all day, we 
spent our evenings together. In those 
summer nights, with the blinds opened 
to let in a stray breeze from the bay, 
with no light but the fitful flicker of 
the lamp across the street, in the si- 
lence and dimness, feeling the whole 
world shut out and far away ; then it 
was that the flood-gates of memory 
opened, and one received into her soul, 
with a depth and fullness and sacred- 
ness never to be expressed, that which 
was truly Alice Cary's life. 

In August, Alice wrote to me at 
Newport : " Phcebe is still away, and I 
alone in the house ; but busy as a bee 
from morning till night. I often hear 
it said that people, as they grow older, 
lose their interest in things around 
them ; but this is not true of me. I 
take more interest in life, in all that 
concerns it, and in human beings, 
every year I live. If I fail of bringing 
something worthy to pass, I don't 
mean that it shall be for lack of en- 
ergy or industry. I 'm putting the 
house in order, and have such new and 
pleasant plans for the winter. Do 
hasten back, that I may tell you all 
about them." In two weeks I re- 
turned, and, going at once to her fa- 
miliar room, she met me on the thresh- 
old without a word. As she kissed 
me, her tears fell upon my face ; and, 
looking up, I saw the change in hers. 
The Indian summer of youth, which 
had made it so fair, four little weeks 
before, had now gone from it forever ; 
the shadow of the grave reached it 
already. 

" Since I wrote you," she said, " My 
only sister, save Phcebe, has died ; and 
look at me ! " She moved, and I saw 
that the graceful, swaying movement, 
so especially hers, was gone — that she 
was hopelessly lame. 

Thus that first of September began 
the last, fierce struggle between life 
and death, which was to continue for 
seventeen months. Only God and his 
ministering angels know with what 
pangs that soul and body parted. I 
I cannot think of it without a shudder 
and a sigh — a shudder for the agony, 
a sigh for that patient, and tender and 
loving heart, so full of life and yearn- 
ing amid the anguish of dissolving 



SCXD.-1V EVENING RECEPTIONS. 



23 



nature. At first it seemed impossible 
that she could remain lame. Each 
day we said: "To-morrow you must 

come down-stairs again." But, save 

with crutches, she never walked again. 
In the beginning it seemed impossible 
for her to adjust her mind or habits to 
this fact, or to realize that she was not 
able to join the familiar circle around 
the Sunday evening tea-table. Yet the 
more impossible it became for her to 
participate personally, the more eager 
she became for the happiness of others. 
She would have us dress in her room, 
that she might refresh her eyes with 
bright colors ; and leave the door of 
her room open, that she might hear the 
tones of dear, familiar voices coming 
up from below. When tea was cheer- 
ing, and speech and laughter flowing 
freest, there was something inexpressi- 
bly touching in the thought of the 
woman who provided this cheer for so 
many, sitting by herself in a darkened 
room, sick and alone. Once, in going 
up to her, I found her weeping. " You 
should not have left the others,"' she 
said. " My only pleasure is in thinking 
that you are all happy down-stairs. 
But it makes me cry to think that I am 
done with it all : that in one sense I 
am as far away from you in health, as if 
I were already in eternity." 

In the early dawn of a wintry morn- 
ing, I went in to her bedside to say 
good-by. The burning hands out- 
stretched, the tearful, beseeching eyes, 
the low voice burdened with loving 
farewell, are among the most precious 
and pathetic of all the treasures which 
faithful memory bears on to her in the 
land where she now is. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THEIR SUNDAY EVENING RECEPTIONS. 

The most resplendent social assem- 
blies which the world has ever seen 
have been those in which philosophy, 
politics, and literature mingled with 
fortune, rank, beauty, grace, and wit 
Nor was this commingling of dazzling 
human forces identical only with the 
Parisian salon. " Blue-stocking " in 
our day is synonymous only with a stiff, 



stilted, queer literary woman of a dubi- 
ous age. Yet the first blue-stocking, 
Elizabeth Montague, was a woman who 
dazzled with her wit, as well as bv her 
beaut}', and who blazed with diamonds 
at fourscore. A purely blue-stocking 
party, to-day, would doubtless give us 
sponge cake, weak tea, and the dreari- 
01 driveling professional talk. Yet 
the first assemblies which bore the 
name of blue-stocking were made up 
of actors, divines, beaux, belles, the 
pious and the worldly, the learned and 
the fashionable, the titled and the lowly 
born. Here, in the drawing-room of 
Montague House, mingled gayly to- 
gether, might have been seen volatile 
Mrs. Thrale, wise Hannah More, and 
foolish Fanny Burney ; the Greek 
scholar, Elizabeth Carter, with Garrick, 
Johnson, Reynolds, Young, Beattie, 
Burke, Lord Karnes, Lord Chatham, 
and Horace Walpole, with many others 
as personally brilliant if less renowned. 
One never thinks of calling a man a 
blue-stocking now ; yet it was a man 
who first wore " cerulean hose " in a 
fashionable assembly — Dr. Stilling- 
fleet, who was a sloven as well as a 
scholar. Admiral Boscawen, glancing 
at his gray-blue stockings, worn at one 
of Mrs. Montague's assemblies, gave 
it the name of the Blue-stocking As- 
sembly, to indicate that the full dress, 
still indispensable to evening parties, 
might be dispensed with, if a person so 
chose, at Mrs. Montague's. A French- 
man, catching at the phrase, exclaimed, 
"Ah / les bas bleus!" And the title 
has clung to the literary woman ever 
since. 

The nearest approach to the first ideal 
blue-stocking reception ever reached 
in this country was the Sunday evening 
receptions of Alice and Phoebe Cary. 
Here, for over fifteen years, in an un- 
pretending home, gathered not only the 
most earnest, but many of the most 
brilliant Americans of our time. There 
are like assemblies still, wherein men 
and women rich in all fine gifts and 
graces meet and mingle ; yet I doubt if 
there be one so catholic, so finely com- 
prehensive, as to make it the rallying 
spot, the outraying centre of the artis- 
tic and literary life of the metropolis. 
Its central magnet lost, such a circle, 
once broken and scattered in all its 



2A 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



parts, cannot be easily regathered and 
bound. Society must wait till another 
soul, equally potent, sweet, unselfish, 
sympathetic, and centripetal, shall draw 
together once more its scattered forces 
in one common bond. For the relief 
of Puritan friends who are troubled 
that those receptions occurred on Sab- 
bath evening, I must say they never 
hindered anybody from going to church. 
Horace Greeley, who never missed a 
Sabbath evening in this house when in 
the city, used to drink his two cups of 
sweetened milk and water, say his say, 
and then suddenly vanish, to go and 
speak at a temperance meeting, to lis- 
ten to Dr. Chapin, or to write his 
Monday morning leader for the " Trib- 
une." Sabbath evening was their re- 
ception evening because it was the only 
one which the sisters had invariably 
free from labor ; and, as a rule, this 
was equally true of their guests. 
While her health permitted, Alice at- 
tended church regularly every Sunday 
morning, and till her last sickness 
Phcebe Was a faithful church-goer ; but 
Sabbath evening was their own and 
their friends'. In their receptions 
there was no formality, no rule of dress. 
You could come as simply or as finely 
arrayed as you chose. Your costly cos- 
tume would not increase your welcome, 
nor your shabby attire place you at a 
discount. Indeed, if anything about 
you ever so remotely suggested pov- 
erty or loneliness, it would, at the ear- 
liest possible moment, bring Alice to 
your side. Her dark, gentle, tender eyes 
would make you feel at home at once. 
You would forget your clothes and 
yourself altogether, in a quiet, imper- 
sonal, friendly flow of talk which would 
begin at once between you. If a stran- 
ger, she would be sure not to leave you 
till Phcebe came, or till she had intro- 
duced you to some pleasant person, and 
you would not find yourself again alone 
during the evening. This was the dis- 
tinctive characteristic of these Sunday 
evenings, that they opened welcoming 
doors to all sympathetic souls, without 
the slightest reference to the state of 
their finances or mere worldly condi- 
tion. 

" What queer people you do see at 
the Carys' ! It is as good as a show ! " 
exclaimed a merely fashionable woman. 



" I have no desire to go to the Ca- 
rys'," said a supercilious literary dame, 
" while they admit such people." 

" Why, they are reputable, are they 
not ? " was the astonished reply. 

" For aught I know ; but they are so 
odd, and they have no position — abso- 
lutely none." 

" Then the more they must need 
friends, Alice and Phcebe think. They 
contradict Goldsmith's assertion : ' If 
you want friends, be sure not to need 
them: " 

Phoebe's attention was called one 
day to a young man, poor, little known, 
ungraceful in bearing, and stiff in man- 
ner, who had artistic tastes and a de- 
sire to know artistic people, and who 
sometimes came quietly into the little 
library, on Sunday evening, without 
any special invitation, but who no less 
was cordially received. 

" says she is astonished that 

you receive him," said a friend. " He 
is so pushing and presumptuous, and 
his family is very common." 

" You tell ," said Phoebe, with a 

flash in her black eyes, " that we like 
him very much ; that he is just as wel- 
come here as she is, and we are always 
glad to see her." 

There are centres of reunion still in 
New York, where literary, artistic, and 
cultured people meet ; but we doubt if 
there is another wherein the poor and 
unknown, of aspiring tastes and refined 
sensibilities, could be so certain of an 
entire, unconscious welcome, untinged 
by even the suggestion of condescen- 
sion or of patronage ; where, in plain 
garb and with unformed manners, they 
could come and be at home. Yet the 
Sunday evening reception was by no 
means the rendezvous of the queer and 
ne'er-do-well alone. During the fifteen 
years or more in which it flourished, at 
the little house in Twentieth Street, "it 
numbered among its guests and.habzt- 
ues as many remarkable men and 
women as ever gathered around the 
abundant board at Streatham, or sat in 
the library of Strawberry Hill. 

There was Horace Greeley, who so 
rarely missed a Sabbath evening at 
this house — a man in mind greater 
than Johnson, and in manners not un- 
like him ; who will live in the future 
among: the most famous of his contem- 



THEIR VISITO 



25 



poraries, as the man who, perhaps, 
more than any other, Left his own dis- 
tinctive, individual mark upon the times 

in which he lived. There was Olivet- 
Johnson, rarely absent from that cheery 
tea-table, the apostle of human free- 
dom, who stood in the van of its fee- 
ble guard when it cost much to do 
that*: strong, earnest, brave, and true, 
a king of radicals, whose swiftest theo- 
ries never outran his faith in God, his 
love for human nature, his self-abne- 
gating devotion to his friends, even 
when his only reward was selfishness 
and unworthiness. There was Mary 
Ann Johnson, his wife, so recently 
translated, whose memory of simple, 
dignified, wise, and tender womanhood 
is a precious and imperishable legacy 
to all who ever knew and loved her. 
And Julia Deane, Alice Cary's beloved 
friend, golden-haired, matchless as a 
Grecian goddess. I see her now as I 
saw her first, in the radiance of her 
undimmed beauty, sitting by Whittier's 
side, great poet and gentle man. in his 
plain Friends' gard, yet worshiping, 
as man and poet must, the loveliness 
of woman ! What a troop of names, 
more or less famous, arise as I recall 
those who at different times have min- 
gled in those receptions ! Bayard Tay- 
lor, with his gifted and lovely wife ; 
the two married poets, Richard and 
Elizabeth Stoddard : Prof. R. W. Ray- 
mond, Robert Dale Owen, Justin Mc- 
Carthy, Hon. Henry Wilson, Samuel 
Bowles, George Ripley, Edwin Whip- 
ple, Richard Kimball, Thomas B. Al- 
drich, Carpenter (the artist), Robert 
Chambers of Edinburgh, Robert Bon- 
ner of New York, a man as generous 
in nature and pure in character as he 
has been preeminently successful in 
acquiring wealth and fame, and who 
for many years, till their death, was 
the faithful friend of Alice and Phoebe. 
Among clergymen there were Rev. Dr. 
Abel Stevens, Methodist ; Rev. Dr. 
Chapin, Universalist ; Rev. Dr. Field, 
Presbyterian ; Rev. Dr. Deems, Meth- 
odist. Whatever their theologies, all 
agreed in their faith in womanhood, as 
they found it embodied in Alice and 
Phoebe Cary. Among women much 
beloved by the sisters, who always had 
the entree of their home, were Mary 
L. Booth, Mrs. Wright, Mrs. Mary E. 



Dodge, Mrs. Crolv, Mrs. Victor, Mrs. 
Ravi, Mrs. Mary Stevens Robinson. I 
have not space for one tenth of the 
names I might recall — actors, artists, 
poets, clergymen, titled people from 
abroad, women of fashion, women of 
letters, women of home, the known and 
the unknown. In each type and class 
they found friends ; and what better 
proof could be given of the richness 
of their humanity, that, without being 
narrowed by any, their hearts were large 
enough for all ! 

Perhaps neither sister could have 
attracted into one common circle so 
many minds, various, if not conflicting 
in their separate sphere of thought and 
action. Each sister was the counter- 
part of the other. To the sympathy, 
appreciation, tact, gentleness, and ten- 
derness of Alice were added the wit 
and bonhomie and sparkling cheer of 
Phoebe. The combination was perfect 
for social effect and success. 

Rev. Charles F. Deems, Phoebe's 
pastor at the time of her death, and 
the cherished and trusted friend of 
both sisters, at the request of its ed- 
itor wrote for " Packard's Monthly," 
February, 1870, an article entitled 
"Alice and Phoebe Cary: Their Home 
and Friends," which contains so vivid 
a sketch of some of their Sunday even- 
ing visitors that I quote from it : — 

" If they could all be gathered into 
one room, it would really be a sight to 
see all the people who have been at- 
tracted by these charming women 
during the years they have occupied 
this cozy home. Let us fancy that 
they are so collected. 

''There is, facile ftrinceps of their 
friends, Horace Greeley — not so very 
handsome, perhaps, but owing so much 
to his toilet ! He is sitting in a listen- 
ing or abstracted attitude, with his 
great, full head bent, or smiling all 
over his great baby face as he hears or 
tells something good ; perhaps espe- 
cially enjoying the famous Quaker ser- 
mon which Oliver Johnson, of the ' In- 
dependent,' is telling with such friendly 
accentuation, and with such command 
over his strong features, while all the 
company are at the point of explosion. 
That round-headed Professor of Rhet- 
oric in the corner, who reads Shake- 
speare in a style that would make the 



26 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



immortal William thrill if he could 
only hear him, is Professor Raymond. 
That slightly built man with a heavy 
moustache is Lord Adare, son of a 
Scotch earl ; and the bonny, bright- 
eyed woman by his side is his wife — 
immensely pleased with Phoebe's fre- 
quent and rapid sallies of wit. And 
there are Robert Dale Owen, author of 
' Footfalls on the Boundary of Another 
World,' and Edwin Whipple, the Bos- 
ton essayist and lecturer, whose fore- 
head doth so forcibly oppress all the 
rest of his face ; and there, Samuel 
Bowles, of the ' Springfield Republi- 
can,' and author of ' Across the Conti- 
nent : ' and the nobly built and genial 
traveler, Colonel Thomas W. Knox, of 
the ' Sun,' who has charmed us so in 
print with his sketches of Russia and 
Siberia, and who can talk quite as well 
as he can write ; and there, Justin 
McCarthy, formerly of the London 
' Morning Star,' and author of ' My 
Enemy's Daughter ; ' and that hand- 
some old gentleman, with the smile of 
the morning in his face, so courtly 
that you feel foe should be some king's 
prime minister, and so venerable that 
he would give dignity to an arch- 
bishop's crozier, is Ole Bull, whose 
cunning hands have wrung ravishing 
music from the strings of the violin ; 
and just beyond, burly and full of good 
nature, is Phineas T. Barnum, ' show- 
man,' and more than that, with great 
brains, which would have made him 
notable in any department. If the 
public have had pleasure in seeing his 
shows, he has had pleasure in study- 
ing the public ; and his knowledge of 
human nature makes him a most enter- 
taining talker. If any have thought of 
him only as a ' humbugger,' let the 
profound regard he has for these sin- 
cere and honest ladies, whose guest he 
so often is, plead against all that he 
has confessed against himself in his 
autobiography. He ' does good by 
stealth, and blushes to find it fame,' 
but tells all the bad about himself un- 
blushingly. A whole group of editors 
might be fancied — only that they have 
enough of each other ' down town,' and 
so in society seek some one else, and 
do not ' group : ' for there are Dr. 
Field, the excellent editor of the 
1 Evangelist ; ' and Mr. Elliott and Mr. 



Perry, of the ' Home Journal ; ' and 
Whitelaw Reid, of the ' Tribune ; ' and 
Mr. R. W. Gilder, of the 'Hours at 
Home ; ' and last but not least, Mr. 
Robert Bonner, of the ' Ledger,' of 
whom, seeing that I have never had 
literary and financial dealings with 
him on my own account, I may say 
that he has made illustrious the pro- 
verb, ' There is that scattereth, and 
yet increaseth.' The publishers are 
represented by Robert Chambers, of 
Edinburgh, who has so much ' Infor- 
mation for the People ' that people 
need not be informed who he is ; and 
George W. Carleton, the prince of 
publishers, whose elegant new book 
house, on Broadway, has already be- 
come the resort of literary and taste- 
ful people. 

" And then, what ladies have been 
in that house ! How many of the 
most refined and noble women, whose 
names are unknown to fame, but 
whose minds and manners have given 
to society its aroma and beauty ! 
How many whose names are known 
all over Christendom ! If that of 
Elizabeth Cady Stanton suggests to a 
stranger — as, until I knew her, it cer- 
tainly did to me — anything not beau- 
tifully feminine, how he will be dis- 
appointed when he sees her. She is 
quiet, self -poised, 'lady-like ' — for she 
is a lady — plump as a partridge, of 
warm complexion, has a well formed 
head, adorned with white hair, put up 
unstiffiy in puffs, and she would any- 
where be taken for the mother of a 
governor or president, if governors 
and presidents were always gentlemen. 
I have studied Mrs. Stanton hours at a 
sitting, when she was presiding over a 
public meeting in the Cooper Union, 
when the brazen women who have 
brought such bad fame to the Wom- 
an's Rights movement were trying to 
secure ' the floor,' and gaunt fanatics 
of my own sex were contending with 
them for that ' privilege,' and the mob 
were hissing or shouting, and the tact 
with which Mrs. Stanton managed that 
whole assembly was a marvel. Ex- 
cept Henry Clay, of Kentucky, and 
Edward Stanly, formerly of North 
Carolina and now of California, she is 
the best presiding officer I have ever 
seen. 



ALICE CARY. 



27 



" And that nice little person with 
short curls, so admirably I . and 

self-sufficient, and handsome, not beau- 
tiful ; her tout ensemble a combination 
of author, artist, actor — strong as .1 
young man and sensitive as a young 
woman — is Anna Dickinson. And 
there, with so thoughtful a face, sits 
Mary L. Booth, industrious and accu- 
rate translator of huge volumes of 
French history and science, and now 
editor of ' Harper's Bazar.' Her con- 
versation is an intellectual treat. And 
there is Madame Le Vert, of Mobile, 
who in English and American society 
has so long~held the place of ' the most 
charming woman/ without arousing 
the envy of any other woman, and who, 
therefore, must have an exceptional 
temperament ; a lady who never says a 
very wise, or witty, or weak, or foolish 
thing, but whom you cannot speak 
with ten minutes without — weakly 
and foolishly it may be, but delight- 
fully — feeling yourself to be both wise 
and' witty. ' It is not always May,' 
even with Madame Le Vert. She has 
had losses and disappointments, and 
physical pain, and is no longer young, 
but she does marvelously draw the 
summer of her soul through the au- 
tumn months of her years. But space 
would fail if each lady were particu- 
larly described, from Kate Field, the 
brilliant journalist and lecturer, and 
'Jennie June ' (Mrs. Croly of ' Demor- 
est's Magazine '), and Mary E. Dodge, 
of ' Hearth and Home.' who wrote 
' Hans Brinker's Silver Skates,' to the 
sallow, self-denying missionary sister 
from Cavalla. clad in the costume of 
ten years ago, now a stranger in her 
own land. 

" Of the spiritual teachers, all are 
welcome at any time, from the Roman 
Catholic, John Jerome Hughes, and 
the eloquent Universalist, Chapin, to 
the adjective - yet - to - be - discovered 
Frothingham. The house of the Cary 
sisters is a Pantheon, a Polytechnic 
Institute, a room of the Committee on 
Reconstruction, a gathering place for 
the ecclesiastical and political Happy 
Family. Original abolitionists and ab- 
original secessionists meet pleasantly 
in a circle where everybody thinks, but 
nobody is tabooed for tuhat he thinks. 

" A great city is generally a mass of 



cold, but there are always ' warm 
places ' even in a huge metropolis ; and 
strangers are peculiarly endowed with 
the instinct for detecting them. It is 
genuine goodness that does the warm- 
ing. And this house is never cold ! 

" Thus is shown that these sisters 
are authors of more than books. Their 
influence in their home is beautiful 
and conservative and preservative. 

•• May they live forever ! " 



CHAPTER V. 



ALICE CARY. 



THE WOMAN. 



Years ago, in an old academy in 
Massachusetts, its preceptor gave to a 
young girl a poem to learn for a 
Wednesday exercise. It began, — 

" Of all the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 
That seemeth best of all." 

After the girl had recited the poem to 
her teacher, he told her that Edgar 
Poe had said, and that he himself con- 
curred in the opinion, that in rhythm 
it was one of the most perfect lyrics in 
the English language. He then pro- 
ceeded to tell the story of the one who 
wrote it — of her life in her Western 
home, of the fact that she and her sis- 
ter Phcebe had come to New York to 
seek their fortune, and to make a place 
for themselves in literature. It fell 
like a tale of romance on the girl's 
heart : and from that hour she saved 
every utterance that she could find of 
Alice Cary's, and spent much time 
thinking about her, till in a dim way 
she came to seem like a much-loved 
friend. 

In 1857 the school girl, then a 
woman, whom actual life had already 
overtaken, sat for the first time in a 
New York drawing-room, and looked 
with attentive but by no means dazzled 
eyes upon a gathering assembly. It 
does not follow, because a person has 
done something remarkable, that he is, 
therefore, remarkable or even pleasant 
to look upon. Thus it happened that 
the young woman had numerous dis- 



28 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



appointments that evening, as one by 
one names famous in literature and art 
were pronounced, and their owners for 
the first time took on the semblance of 
flesh and blood before her. Presently 
came into the room, and sat down be- 
• side her, a lady, whose eyes, in their 
first glance, and whose voice, in its first 
low tone, won her heart. Soft, sad, 
tender eyes they were, and the face 
from which they shone was lovely. Its 
features were fine, its complexion a 
colorless olive, lit with the lustrous 
brown eyes, softened still more by 
masses of waving dark hair, then un- 
touched of gray, and, save by its own 
wealth, wholly unadorned. Her dress 
was as harmonious as her face. It was 
of pale gray satin, trimmed with folds 
of ruby velvet ; a dress like herself and 
her life — soft and sad in the back- 
ground, bordered with brightness. 
This was Alice Cary. Even then her 
face was a history, not a prophecy. 
Even then it bore the record of past 
suffering, and in the tender eyes there 
still lingered the shadow of many van- 
ished dreams^ Thus the story of the 
old academy was made real and doubly 
beautiful to the stranger. The Alice 
Cary whom she had imagined had 
never been quite so lovely as the Alice 
Cary whom she that moment saw. 
That evening began a friendship be- 
tween two women on which, till its 
earthly close, no shadow ever fell. 

As I sit here thinking of her, I realize 
how futile will be any effort of mine to 
make a memorial worthy of my friend. 
The woman in herself so far trans- 
cended any work of art that she ever 
wrought, any song (sweet as her songs 
were) that she ever sung, that even to 
attempt to put into words what she was 
seems hopeless. Yet it is an act of jus- 
tice, no less than of love, that one who 
knew her in the sanctuary of her life 
should, at least, partly lift the veil 
which ever hung between the lovely 
soul and the world ; that the women of 
this land may see more clearly the sis- 
ter whom they have lost, who, in what 
she was herself, was so much more 
than in what she in mortal weakness 
was able to do — at once an example 
and glory to American womanhood. It 
must ever remain a grief to those who 
knew her and loved her best, that such 



a soul as hers should have missed its 
highest earthly reward ; but, if she can 
still live on as an incentive and a friend 
to those who remain, she at least is com- 
forted now for all she suffered and all 
she missed here. 

The life of one woman who has con- 
quered her own spirit, who, alone and 
unassisted, through the mastery of her 
own will, has wrought out from the 
hardest and most adverse conditions a 
pure, sweet, and noble life, placed her- 
self among the world's workers, made 
her heart and thought felt in ten thou- 
sand unknown homes — the life of one 
such woman is worth more to all living 
women, proves more for the possibili-. 
ties of womanhood, for its final and 
finest advancement, its ultimate recog- 
nition and highest success, than ten 
thousand theories or eloquent orations 
on the theme. Such a woman was 
Alice Cary. Mentally and spiritually 
she was especially endowed with the 
rarest gifts ; but no less, the lowliest 
of all her sisters may take on new 
faith and courage from her life. It may 
not be for you to sing till the whole 
land listens, but it is in your power, in 
a narrower sphere, to emulate the traits 
which brought the best success to her 
in her wider life. 

Many personally impress us with the 
fact that they have wrought into the 
forms of art the very best in them- 
selves. Whatever they may have em- 
bodied in form, color, or thought, we 
are sure that it is the most that they 
have to give, and in giving that, they 
are by so much themselves impover- 
ished. In their own souls they hold 
nothing rarer in reserve. The oppo- 
site was true of Alice Cary. You 
could not know her without learning 
that the woman in herself was far 
greater and sweeter than anything that 
she had ever produced. You could not 
sit by her side, listening to the low, 
slow outflow of her thought, without 
longing that she might yet find the 
condition which would enable her to 
give it a fuller and finer expression 
than had ever yet been possible. You 
could not feel day by day the blended 
strength, generosity, charity, and ten- 
derness of the living woman, without 
longing that a soul so complete might 
yet make an impression on the nation 



J 



THE WOMAX AND THE POET. 



29 



to which it was born, that could never 
fade away. Her most powerful trait, 
the one which seemed the basis of her 
entire character, was her passion for 
justice, for in its intensity it rose to the 
height oi a passion. Her utmost ca- 
pacity for hate went out toward every 
form of oppression. If she ever 
seemed overwrought, it was for some 
wrong indicted on somebody, very 
rarely on herself. She wanted every- 
thing, the meanest little bug at her 
feet, to have its chance, all the chance 
of its little life. That this so seldom 
could be, in this distorted world, was 
the abiding grief of her life. Early 
she ceased to suffer chiefly for her- 
self ; but to her latest breath she 
suffered for the sorrows of others. 
Phcebe truly said : "Constituted as she 
was, it was not possible for her to help 
taking upon herself, not only all the 
sorrows of her friends, but in some 
sense the tribulation and anguish that 
•cometh upon every son and daughter 
of Adam. She was even unto the end 
planning great projects for the benefit 
of suffering humanity, and working 
with her might to be helpful to those 
near her ; and when it seemed impos- 
sible that one suffering herself such 
manifold afflictions could think even 
of the needs of others. ' ; 

It was this measureless capacity to 
know and feel everything that con- 
cerns human nature, this pity for all, 
this longing for justice and mercy to 
the lowest and the meanest thing that 
could breathe and suffer — this large- 
ness lifting her above all littleness — 
this universality of soul, which made 
her in herself great as she was tender. 
Such a soul could not fail to feel, with 
deepest intensity, every sorrow and 
wrong inflicted upon her own sex. 
She loved women with a fullness of 
sympathy and tenderness never sur- 
passed. She felt pity for their infirm- 
ities, and pride in their successes, 
feeling each to be in part her own. 
Believing that in wifehood, mother- 
hood, and home, woman found her 
surest and holiest estate, all the more 
for this belief, her whole being re- 
belled against the caste in sex, which 
would prescribe the development of 
any individual soul, which would lay a 
single obstacle in the way of a toiling 



and aspiring human being, which 
would degrade her place in the human 
race, because, with all her aspiration, 
toil, and suffering, she wore the form 
of woman. Every effort having for its 
object the help, advancement, and full 
enfranchisement of woman from every 
form of injustice, in Church, State, ed- 
ucation, or at home, had her com- 
pletest sympathy and cooperation. Yet 
she said : " I must work in my own 
way, and that is a very quiet one. My 
health, habits, and temperament make 
it impossible that I should mix in 
crowds, or act with great organizations. 
I must say my little say, and do my 
little do, at home ! " These words 
add interest to the fact that Alice Cary 
was the first President of the first 
Woman's Club (now called Sorosis) 
formed in New York. The entire his- 
tory of her relation with it is given in 
a private letter from Mrs. Jenny C. 
Croly, written since the death of Alice 
and Phcebe. As a testimonial of af- 
fection to them from a woman whom 
both sisters honored and loved, and as 
the history of how Alice Cary became 
President of a Woman's Club, which 
no other person could write, I take the 
liberty of quoting from this letter. 

Mrs. Croly says : " Alice particularly 
I loved, and thank God for ever having 
known ; she was so large and all-em- 
bracing in her kindliness and charity, 
that her place must remain vacant : 
few women exist who could fill it. 

" Much as those of us who knew the 
sisters thought we loved them, few 
realized the gap it would make in our 
lives when they were gone. Their 
loyalty, their truth, their steadfastness, 
their genial hospitality, their warmth 
of friendship, their devotion to each 
other, — the beautiful utterances of 
their quiet, patient, yet in some re- 
spects, suffering lives, which found 
their way to the world, all belonged to 
them, and seem almost to have died 
with them. 

"It breaks my heart to remember 
how hard Phcebe tried to be ' brave ' 
after Alice's death, as she thought her 
sister would wish to have her ; how 
she opened the windows to let in the 
sunlight, filled her room with flowers, 
refused to put on mourning, because 
Alice had requested her not to do so, 



30 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



and tried to interest herself in general 
schemes and plans for the advance- 
ment of women. But it was all of no 
use. She simply could not live after 
Alice was gone. ' I do not know what 
is the matter with me,' she said to me 
on one occasion ; ' I have lain down, 
and it seems, because Alice is not 
there, there is no reason why I should 
get up. For thirty years I have gone 
straight to her bedside as soon as I 
arose in the morning, and wherever 
she is, I am sure she wants me now.' 
Could one think of these words with- 
out tears ? 

" In addition to the love I felt for 
them, I am proud of these two women, 
as women whose isolated lives were so 
simple and so pure, who gave back 
tenderness and devotion and loving 
charity, for the slights which society 
deals even to gifted, if lonely woman- 
hood. Some mistaken impressions 
have been obtained in regard to Alice 
Cary, in consequence of the sudden 
termination of her alliance with ' Soro- 
sis.' For her connection with the so- 
ciety at all, J alone am responsible. 
Some sort of organization among wom- 
en was my hobby, and I had discussed 
it with her often at her Sunday even- 
ing receptions. She had sympathized, 
but always refused to take any active 
part on account of her ill health. 
When the society was actually formed, 
therefore, I applied first to Mrs. Par- 
ton to become its President, a post 
which she at first accepted, and after- 
wards refused for a personal reason. 
Desirous of having a literary club, with 
rthe name of a distinguished literary 
• woman, I begged Alice Cary to accept 
the position. She found it difficult to 
refuse my urgent entreaties, but did 
so, until I rose in great agitation, say- 
ing, ' Alice Cary, think what faith, rev- 
erence, and affection thousands of 
women have given to you, and you will 
not even give to them your name.' I 
left the house hastily, and went back to 
my office, concealing hot tears of grief 
and disappointment behind my veil. 
A moment after I arrived there, to my 
astonishment she came in, sank down 
in a chair, breathless with her haste, 
and said, ' If my name is worth any- 
thing to woman, I have come to tell 
you to take it.' For answer I knelt 



down at her feet, and kissed her hand 
over and over again. Dear Alice 
Cary ! only the argument that she was 
withholding something she could give 
had any weight with her." 

Alice took her seat as President of 
the Woman's Club, but from ill health 
and an instinctive disinclination person- 
ally to fill any place publicly, she very 
soon resigned.. Nevertheless, though 
at times she differed from special meth- 
ods adopted by its members, the Wom- 
an's Club (Sorosis), in its original in- 
tent, and in its possibilities as a source 
of mutual culture and help to women, 
always had her sympathy to her dying 
day. Her address on taking the chair 
of the Woman's Club, unique and en- 
tirely characteristic, I give as the first 
and last speech ever made by Alice 
Cary on a public occasion. Yet this 
public occasion of hers was a most ge- 
nial and gracious one. In the sumptuous 
parlor of Delmonico's, in an easy chair, 
sat Alice Cary, surrounded by a party 
of ladies, while she read to them in her 
low, forceful tones the words of her ad- 
dress. Not an ungraceful or unfeminine 
thing was this to do, even the most prej- 
udiced must acknowledge. " I believe 
in it," she said afterwards, " especially 
for any one who works best in concert 
with others, and to whom the attrition 
and stimulus of contact with other 
minds is necessary. To many women 
such a weekly convocation will be of 
the highest advantage, but so far as I 
personally am concerned, I enjoy bet- 
ter sitting up-stairs, chatting with a 
friend, while I trim a cap for Aunt 
Lamson." 

But here is the speech : — 

Ladies, — As it will not be expected 
of me to make speeches very often, 
hereafter, I think I may presume on 
your indulgence, if I take advantage of 
this one opportunity. Permit me, then, 
in the first place, to thank you ior the 
honor you have done me in assigning 
to me the President's chair. Why I 
should have been chosen, when there 
are so many among you greatly more 
competent to fill the position, I am at 
a loss to understand ; unless, indeed, it 
be owing to the fact that I am to most 
of you a stranger, and your imaginations 
have clothed me with qualities not my 



ALICE AT THE WOMAN'S CLUB. 



31 



due. This you would soon discover 
for yourselves ; I mention it only to 
bespeak your forbearance, though in 
this regard, I ventured almost to antic- 
ipate your lenity, inasmuch as you all 
know how untrained to business habits, 
how ignorant of rules, and how unused 
to executive management most women 
are. 

If I take my seat, therefore, without 
confidence, it is not without the hope 
of attaining, through your generous 
kindness and encouragement, to better 
things. •• A Woman's Club ! Whoever 
heard of the like I What do women 
want of a Club ? Have you any aims 
or objects ? " These are questions 
which have been propounded to me day 
after dav, since this project was set 
afoot — by gentlemen, of course. And 
I have answered, that, in our humble 
way, we were striving to imitate their 
example. You have your exclusive 
clubs, I have said, and why should not 
we have ours ? What is so promotive 
of your interests cannot be detrimental 
to us ; and that you find these reunions 
helpful to yourselves, and beneficial to 
society, we cannot doubt. 

You, gentlemen, profess to be our 
representatives, to represent us better 
than we could possibly represent our- 
selves ; therefore, we argue, it cannot 
be that you are attracted by grand 
rooms, fine furniture, luxurious dinners 
and suppers, expensive wines and ci- 
gars, the bandying of poor jests, or the 
excitement of the gaming table. Such 
dishonoring suspicions as these are not 
to be entertained for a moment. 

Of our own knowledge, I have said, 
we are not able to determine what spe- 
cial agencies you employ for your ad- 
vantage and ours, in your deliberative 
assemblies, for it has not been thought 
best for our interests that we should 
even sit at your tables, much less to 
share your councils ; and doubtless, 
therefore, in our blindness and igno- 
rance, we have made some pitiful mis- 
takes. 

In the first place, we have "tipped 
the tea-pot." This is a hard saying, the 
head and front of the charges brought 
against us, and we cannot but acknowl- 
edge its justice and its force ; we are, 
in fact, weighed down with shame and 
humiliation, and impelled, while we are 



about it, to make full and free con I 
sion of all our wild and guilty fantasies. 
We have, then, to begin at the begin- 
ning, proposed the inculcation of deeper 
and broader ideas among women, pro- 
posed to teach them to think for them- 
selves, and get their opinions at first 
hand, not so much because it is their 
right, as because it is their duty. We 
have also proposed to open out new 
avenues of employment to women, to 
make them less dependent and less 
burdensome, to lift them out of un- 
womanly self-distrust disqualifying dif- 
fidence, into womanly self-respect and 
self-knowledge ; to teach each one to 
make all work honorable by doing the 
share that falls to her, or that she may 
work out to herself agreeably to her 
own special aptitude, cheerfully and 
faithfully, not going down to it, but 
bringing it up to her. We have pro- 
posed to enter our protest against all 
idle gossip, against all demoralizing 
and wicked waste of time ; also against 
the follies and tyrannies of fashion, 
against all external impositions and 
disabilities ; in short, against each and 
every thing that opposes the full de- 
velopment and use of the faculties con- 
ferred upon us by our Creator. 

We have proposed to lessen the 
antagonisms existing at present be- 
tween men and women, by the use of 
every rightful means in our power ; by 
standing upon our divine warranty, and 
saying and doing what we are able to 
say and to do, without asking leave, and 
without suffering hindrance ; not for 
the exclusive good of our own sex, for 
we hold that there is no exclusive, and 
no separate good ; what injures my 
brother injures me, and what injures 
me injures him, if he could but be made 
to know it ; it injures him, whether or 
not he is made to know it. Such, I 
have said, are some of our objects and 
aims. We do not pretend, as yet, to have 
carefully digested plans and clearly de- 
fined courses. We are as children feel- 
ing our way in the dark, for it must be 
remembered that it is not yet half a 
century since the free schools, even in 
the most enlightened portions of our 
country, were first opened to girls. 
How, then, should you expect of us the 
fullness of wisdom which you for whole 
centuries have been gathering from 



32 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PIICEBE CARY. 



schools, colleges, and the exclusive 
knowledge and management of affairs ! 

We admit our short-comings, but we 
do feel, gentlemen, that in spite of 
them, an honest, earnest, and unosten- 
tatious eifort toward broader culture 
and nobler life is entitled to a heartier 
and more sympathetic recognition than 
we have as yet received from you any- 
where ; even our representatives here 
at home, the leaders of the New York 
press, have failed in that magnanimity 
which we have been accustomed to at- 
tribute to them. 

If we could have foreseen the sneers 
and sarcasms with which we have been 
met, they of themselves would have 
constituted all-sufficient reasons for the 
establishment of this Woman's Club ; 
as it is, they have established a strong 
impulse towards its continuance and 
final perpetuity. But, ladies, these 
sneers and sarcasms are, after all, 
but so many acknowledgments of our 
power, and should and will stimulate 
us to braver assertion, to more persist- 
ent effort toward thorough and harmoni- 
ous organization; and concert and har- 
mony are all that we need to make this 
enterprise, ultimately, a great power 
for good. Indeed, with such women 
as have already enrolled their names 
on our list, I, for my part, cannot be- 
lieve failure possible. 

Some of us cannot hope to see great 
results, for our feet are already on the 
downhill side of life ; the shadows are 
lengthening behind us and gathering 
before us, and ere long they will meet 
and close, and the places that have 
known us, know us no more. But if, 
when our poor work is done, any of 
those who come after us shall find in 
it some hint of usefulness toward no- 
bler lives, and better and more endur- 
ing work, we, for ourselves, rest con- 
tent. 

The love, sympathy, and pity which 
Alice felt for the whole human race, 
she lavished with concentrated power 
on those near to her, the members of 
her own family, and all who had been 
drawn into the inner circle of her per- 
sonal life. She had not a relative who 
did not share her solicitude and care. 
Of her young nieces, the daughters of 
Rowena and Susan Cary, she was es- 



pecially fond. The house on Twenti- 
eth Street was often graced and bright- 
ened by their presence, and one, " lit- 
tle Alice," grew up almost as an own 
daughter in her home, giving in return, 
to both her aunts to their latest hour, 
a filial devotion and tenderness which 
the most loving daughter never sur- 
passed. 

No child ever called her mother, yet 
to the end of life the heart of mother- 
hood beat strong within her breast. 
Her love for children never grew faint. 
She was especially fond of little girls, 
and was wont to send for her little 
friends to come and spend a day with 
her. This was a high privilege, but 
any little girl that came was at once 
put at her ease, and felt perfectly at 
home. She took the individuality of 
each child into her heart, and repro- 
duced it in her intercourse with it, and 
in her songs and stories. 

Her little girl visitors were some- 
times silent ones. Going into her 
room one day, there was a row of pho- 
tographs, all little girls, arranged be- 
fore her on her desk. 

" Whose little girls ? " was the eager 
question. 

^Mine /•" was the answer, breaking 
into a laugh. " They are all Alice 
Carys ; take your choice. The only 
trouble they make me is, I can't possi- 
bly get time to write to them all, 
though I do try to, to the babies' 
mothers." All had been sent by stran- 
gers, fathers and mothers, photographs 
of the children named " Alice Cary." 

It is this real love for children, as 
children, which has given to both Al- 
ice and Phcebe Cary's books for little 
folks, such genuine and abiding popu- 
larity. 

No more touching proof could be 
given of Alice Cary's passionate sym- 
pathy with child nature, than her nev- 
er-waning love for her own little sister 
Lucy. Though but three years old 
when she passed away, the impress of 
her child-soul was as vivid and power- 
ful in her sister's heart after the lapse 
of thirty changeful years, as on the 
day that she died. It was more than 
sister mourning for sister, it was the 
woman yearning for the child whose 
vacant place in her life no other child 
had ever filled. The following lines, 



ALICE'S LOVE OF CHILDREN. 



33 



more than Wordsworthian in their bare 

simplicity, are an unfeigned utterance 
of her deepest heart. 

my i.i in. : 

At busy morn — at quiet noon — 
At evening sad and still, 

As wayward as the lawless mist 
That wanders where it will, 
She comes — my little one. 

I cannot have a dream so wrought 

nothing's, nor so wild 
With fantasies, but she is there. 

My heavenly-human child — 

My glad, gay little one. 

She never spake a single word 

Of wisdom, I agree ; 
I loved her not for what she was. 

But what she was to me — 

My precious little one. 

You might not call her beautiful. 
Xor haply was she so ; 

I loved her for the loveliness 
That I alone could know — 
My sweet-souled little one. 

I say I loved, but that is wrong : 
As if the love could change 

Because my dove hath got her wings, 
And taken wider range ! 
Forgive, my little one. 

I still can see her shining curls 

All tremulously fair, 
Like fifty yellow butterflies 

A-rluttering in the air : 

My angel little one. 

I see her tender mouth, her eyes, 
Her garment softly bright, 

Like some fair cloud about the morn 
With roses all a-light : 
My deathless little one. 

She had, in full, the keen sensitive- 
ness of the poetic temperament. A 
harsh tone, even, would bring tears 
into her eyes ; a cold look would haunt 
her for days. It was an absolute grief 
to her to differ in opinion from any one 
she loved, although with her intensity 
of conviction this was sometimes inev- 
itable. It pained her if two friends 
rose to any heat of temper in argument. 
3 



If this ever occurred in her own parlor, 
thQUgh it rarely did, she would refer to 
it with a pained regret tor weeks after- 
wards. This tine sensitiveness of tem- 
perament was manifested in her ex- 
treme personal modesty, which, to the 
end of her life, impelled her to shrink 
from all personal publicity, and to avoid 
everything which could attract attention 
to herself. She felt strong in rectitude, 
in her sense of justice, in her will to do 
for herself and others ; but, in compari- 
son with her friends, always plain and 
poor and lowly in person, attainment, 
and performance. Her standard of ex- 
cellence, both in character and in work, 
was too high to admit of self-satisfac- 
tion. Her ideals in all things were 
absolutely perfect. She took no pride 
in them. She only sighed that with all 
her striving she could not reach them. 

No better proof could be given of 
the lack of self-consciousness in both 
sisters, than the absence of all personal 
diaries, letters, and allusions to them- 
selves among their effects. Amid the 
mass of their papers which remain, not 
a written line has either sister left re- 
ferring personally to herself. They 
held the humblest opinion of their own 
epistolary powers, probably never wrote 
a letter in their lives for the mere sake 
of writing it, while they periodically 
sent requests to their friends to burn 
all letters from them in their posses- 
sion. Thus, amid their large circle of 
friends, very few letters remain, and 
nearly all of these are of too personal a 
character to admit of extracts. Alice 
never wrote a letter save on business, 
or to a person whom she loved. These 
letters were written in snatches of time 
between her tasks at early morning, or 
in the evening. She had no 'leisure to 
discuss art, or new books, seldom cur- 
rent events. The letter was always a 
direct message from her heart to her 
friend. In nothing, save in her self- 
denial for their sakes, did she manifest 
her brooding tenderness and care for 
those she loved, more than in her per- 
sonal letters. 

The following extracts from private 
letters to one person, give an example 
of the letter-writing style which she 
held in such low esteem, and show what 
were the direct utterances of Alice 
Cary's heart in private to a friend. As 



34 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



the expression of herself in a form of 
which so little remains, they are full of 
interest. 

The first is dated September 3, 
1866: — 

" I have not forgotten you, though 
you might think so. The truth is, in 
the first place, my letters are very poor 
affairs, and in the next, I know it. So 
you see I do not like to essay my poor 
powers in that direction unless for a 
special reason, and such an one is my 
love for you. I think of you daily, in- 
deed hourly, and wish you were only 
back among us. Can't you come for a 
little while this winter ? . . . . Go on ! 
We need all the strong words for the 
right that can be uttered. We never 
needed them more, it seems to me. I 
am afraid you are lonesome. I know 
how lonesome I used to be in the coun- 
try and alone. Alone, I mean, so far 
as the society to which one belongs is 
concerned. For we all need something 
outside of ourselves and our immediate 
family. I don't care how much they 
may be to ys, we require it both for 
mind and body. 

" I am here in my own room, just 
where you left me. How I wish you 
could come in. Would n't we talk ? I 
see all our old friends, but I do so wish 
for you. 

" I am very busy, never so busy in 
my life, but whether to good purpose 
or not, I cannot say. Did you read 
my story in the July and August num- 
bers of the ' Atlantic,' ' The Great 
Doctor' ? 

" My poems are expected out this 
fall, but not in a shape to please me ; 
the cuts are dreadfully done ; they look 
like frights. So things go, nothing quite 
as we would have it in this world ; let 
us hope we are nearing a better coun- 
try. I could tell you a thousand things, 
but how can I write them ? 

" You have seen that poor Mrs. 

has passed from among us ? Her poor 
little struggle of a life is ended. I trust 
she has found one more satisfactory. 
My struggle still goes on. I am writ- 
ing stories and verses — I can't say 
poems. 

" Write me, my dear, just from your 
heart." 



" The next letter bears the date of 
September 17, 1866: — 

" My dear, I 've taken time by the 
forelock, as they say. I am up before 
the sun. 

" We had an interesting company 
last evening, among them Mr. Greeley, 
Mr. Beecher, and Robert Dale Owen. 
I thought of you, and wished you here. 
I am glad you are at work again ; you 
must work, you have every encour- 
agement. A word about my story. I 
had no design to write a word against 
the Methodists.^ I believe them to be 
just as good as any other people. But 
I had to put my characters in some 
Church, and as I lived among Metho^ 
dists in my youth, I know much about 
their ways. But I have a good Meth- 
odist preacher to set against my poor 
one, as will appear in due time. I 
would not do so foolish or mean a 
thing as to attempt to write down, or 
to write up, any denomination. There 
is good in all ; but human nature is 
human nature everywhere. 

" Thank you for your kind offer 
about my poems. I shall certainly re- 
member your goodness. I rtfowant the 
book to get before the public, and not 
be left to die in its cradle. I can say 
this much for it, It is mine. It is 
what I have thought, what I have seen, 
lived, and felt myself, not through 
books, or through other persons. I 
have taken the wild woods, corn fields, 
school-houses, rustic boys and girls, 
whatever I know best that has helped 
to make me ; and however poor, there 
is the result. 

" I must see you somehow this 

winter, and your dear friend Mrs. , 

whom I love without having seen. 

"There is breakfast! God bless 
you, and for a little while, good-by." 

Another letter is dated October 21, 
1866 : — 

... . *',I am afraid you are sick or 
very sad, or I am sure I should have 
heard from you. I think of you so 
much, and always with tearful tender- 
ness, for our souls are kindred. I am 
more than half sick. , My cough, since 
the weather has changed, is very 



ALICE'S LETTERS. 



35 



troublesome, so that 1 cannot sleep 
nights, which is dreadful you know. 

" Won't you write and tell me all 
about yourself ? Somehow I feel wor- 
ried about you, as if there were shad- 
ows all around you. 

u The house' was full of pleasant 
company last night, but I was too sick 
to share it. 

M 1 have managed with Carleton 
about my books. He has been very 
generous to me. I like him, and you 
will. I am busy trying to do much 
more than I ought, but I seem to be 
driven by a demon to that end, and to 
what purpose ! Who cares for my 
poor little work, when it is all done ! 
What doth it profit under the sun ! I 
am sad to-day, very sad, and I ought 
go to you only with sunshine. I 
have just finished a long, lonely ballad. 
I wish I could read it to you. More 
than that, 1 wish I could walk with you 
in the sunshine, out among the falling 
leaves, and say just what comes into j 
my heart to say. But you are there, 
and I am here, ' and the harbor bar 
keeps nearing,' " 

The following is from a letter writ- 
ten a year later, January. 1867 : — 

"Here am I again, in my corner, 
thinking of you and of many things of 
which we did not talk much. I felt a 
little hurt, at first, that I did not see 
you more, but I do not now. I know 
that it was just as you say. Never 
mind. I half think I will come again, I 

did enjoy the week in so much. 

I want to begin just where I left off. 

Dear Mrs. . she did so much for 

our comfort and pleasure. How I hope 
to do something for her sometime. And j 

Mr. too, how I like him. It al- ! 

ways did me good to see his bright 
face come in ; his very voice gave me 
confidence and — what word shall I 
use ? I don't know, I only know it al- 
ways helped me to see him. 

" I 've been working on a little book 
of poems, or a proposed book, rather, 
ali day at my desk. It is now nearly ! 
night, and I am tired, but I got on 
pretty well ; that's some comfort. 

" I have not been well since my re- 
turn, and the immense appetite I had 
in , I left there." 



The following bears 
date : — 



a still later 



. . . . " Thank you most kindly for 
your letter. If I had only received it 
earlier, I might have gone with my 

friends to , but they had already 

left, and anyway it would not have been 
easy to leave, for the house is full of 
visitors. I would like to be with you 
these times, but you can't imagine how 
busy I am, and have to be, to keep 
things going. I have been pretty well 
all winter, or I don't know how I should 
have got along. I have done a great 
deal of work, such as it is. Tell me 
what you propose to do, and all about 
yourself. First of all, I hope you are 
well ; that is the great thing. We have 
had very pleasant times this winter ; I 
have so much wished you here to help 
us. I have seen a good deal of Miss 
Booth for the last few months, and 
like her much ; have seen Ole Bull at 
home and elsewhere, and like him, as 
Anna Dickinson would say, 'exces- 
sively ! ' I have seen much also of the 
McCarthys of London. You know and 
like them both ; so do I. I do believe 
I have written my whole letter about 
myself. Well, pay me back in my own 
coin : that is all I want. Give me some 
of those thoughts which go through 
your mind and heart, when you sit 
alone with your cheek in your hand. 

" Mind, I don't mean to say that you 
have not done anything well. By no 
means. But remember, your best work 
you yet must do." 

Another letter is dated November 24. 
[868 : — 

" Your kind letter came duly. How 
I thank you for all your affectionate 
thoughts of me ! I have been think- 
ing and thinking I would write, but it 's 
the old story. I can't write anything 
worth the reading. If we could only 
see each other ! But written words 
are so poor and empty ! at any rate 
mine seem so, and I have not the gift 
to make them otherwise. 

" You have been sick and sad. I 
am so sorry for both, if that could help 
you. I am not well, either. My dear 
sick sister has been with me for two 
months with L . ' Little Alice ' is 



36 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



here now. I have had transient visit- 
ors all the time, — two calls for char- 
ity since I began this letter. So, my 
dear, you can see how some of my 
time, and much of my heart goes. 
You can imagine I have written very 
little, and as for reading, my mind is 
as blank as an idol's. 

" I hope to come to this winter, 

and that there we may see one an- 
other : but can't you somehow come to 
me, — so that we might steal an hour 
now and then ? I think it would do 
you good, I am sure it would me. I 
think of you oftener than you would 
believe. I have not so many friends 
that I cannot keep them all in my heart 
all the time. Have you made your 
new dress? What are you doing? 
and hoping to do ? Do write and tell 
me, if you can afford to get in return 
for good letters such chaff as I send. 

"It seems to me, if I only had your 
years, I would hope everything ; but 
think where I am ! So near the night, 
where no man can work, nor woman 
either. 

" Lastly, my dear, let me admonish 
you to stand more strongly by your 
own nature. . God gave it to you. For 
that reason alone you should think well 
of it, and make the most of it. I say 
this because I think that your tender 
conscience is a little morbid, as well as 
tender. You hardly think that you 
have a right to God's best gifts, to 
the enjoyment of the free air and sun- 
shine. Your little innocent delights 
you constantly buy at a great cost. 
When you have given the loaf, you 
hardly think you have a right to the 
crust. One part of your nature is all 
the time set against the other, and you 
take the self-sacrificing side. I know 
through what straits you are dragged. 
You could not be selfish if you would, 
and I would not have you so, if I could. 
But I do think that you should compel 
yourself to live a higher, more expan- 
sive, and expressive life. You are en- 
titled to it. There is a cloud all the 
time between you and 
even the soulless plants 
the shade. I did not intend to write 
all this ; somehow, it seemed to write 
itself. If I have said more than I 
ought, I pray you pardon me. 

" The day is lovely. I wish we were 



the sun, and 
cannot live in 



in the woods together, hearing the wind 
in the dead leaves, and getting from 
the quiet heart of our mother earth 
some of her tranquil rest. Good-by, 
my dear. May the Lord send his an- 
gels to abide with you." 

Many have inquired concerning her 
belief in "Spiritualism." She was a 
spiritualist in the highest meaning of 
the much-abused term, as every spirit- 
ually minded person must be in some 
sense, and would be if no such thing 
as professional Spiritualism had ever 
existed. No one can believe in the 
New Testament, in God himself, and 
not be in this sense a spiritualist. One 
cannot have faith in another and better 
world, and not feel often that its bor- 
der lies very near to this ; so near, 
indeed, that our lost ones who have 
gone thither may come back to us, un- 
seen, unheard, to walk as " minister- 
ing angels " by our sides. This is 
the spiritualism of Jesus and his dis- 
ciples, and of holy men and women in 
all ages. 

All Alice Cary's spiritual faith is 
uttered in these lines : — 

" Laugh, you who never had 
Your dead come back ; but do not take 

from me 
The harmless comfort of my foolish 
dream : 
That these our mortal eyes, 
Which outwardly reflect the earth and 
skies, 
Do introvert upon eternity ; 
And that the shapes you deem 
Imaginations just as. clearly fall, 
Each from its own divine original, 
And through some subtle element of 
light, 
Upon the inward spiritual eye, 
As do the things which round about 

them lie, 
Gross and material, on the ..external 
sight." 

She hated slavery in every form ; 
she was capable of a burning indigna- 
tion against every type of wrong ; yet 
in her^judgmentof individuals she was 
full of charity and sympathy. I once 
expressed myself bitterly toward a per- 
son who had spoken of Alice most un- 
kindly and falsely. " You would not feel 



HER CREED. 



57 



so, my dear, she said, "if you know- 
how unhappy she is. When 1 think 
how very unhappy she must be herself, 
to be willing to injure one who never 
harmed her, I can only pity her/' 

This intense tenderness, this yearn- 
ing over everything human, with a pity 
and love inexpressible, made the very 
impulse and essence of her being. 
Surely, in this was she Christlike. Our 
Saviour wept over Jerusalem. How 
many tears did she, his disciple, shed 
for sorrowing- humanity, for suffering- 
womanhood. Nor were tears all she 
give. The deepest longing of her life 
was to see human nature lifted from sin 
to holiness, from misery to happiness ; 
every thought that she uttered, every 
deed she did, she prayed might help 
toward this end. To help somebody, 
no matter how lowly, to comfort the af- 
flicted, to lift up the fallen, to share 
every blessing of her life with others, 
to live (even under the stress of pain 
and struggle) a life pure, large, in itself 
an inspiration — this, and more, was 
Alice Cary. 

Filled with the spirit, and fulfilling 
the law of the Master in her daily life, 
is it not intolerant, little, and even mean, 
now she has passed away forever, to 
cast on the abstract creed of such a 
woman the shadow of question, much 
less of reproach ? 

Why should her " Dying Hymn " be 
less the hymn of a dying saint, if she 
did believe that the mercy of her Heav- 
enly Father, and the atonement of 
Jesus Christ, would, in the fullness of 
eternity, redeem from sin, and gather 
into everlasting peace, the whole family 
of man ? Justice tempered by love, the 
supreme attribute of her own nature, 
ran into her individual conception of 
God, and of his dealings with the human 
race. Grieving over the fact that ten 
thousands of her fellow creatures are 
cursed in their very birth, born into the 
world with the physical and spiritual 
taint of depraved generations entailed 
upon them, with neither the power nor 
opportunity, from the cradle to the 
grave, to break the chains of poverty 
and vice and rise to purity : she be- 
lieved no less that the opportunity 
would come to every human being, that 
everything that God had made would 
have its chance ; if not in this existence, 



then in another. Without this faith, at 
times human life would have been to 
her intolerable. It was her soul's con- 
solation to say : — 

" Nay, but 't is not the end : 

God were not God, if such a thing 

could be ; 
If not in time, then in eternity. 
There must be room for penitence to 

mend 
Life's broken chance, else noise of wars 
Would unmake heaven." 

Phoebe, in settling the question' of 
her religious faith, said : — 

"Though singularly liberal and un- 
sectarian in her views, she always pre- 
served a strong attachment to the 
church of her parents, and, in the main, 
accepted its doctrines. Caring little 
for creeds and minor points, she most 
firmly believed in human brotherhood 
as taught by Jesus ; and in a God whose 
loving kindness is so deep and so un- 
changeable, that there can never come 
a time to even the vilest sinner, in all 
the ages of eternity, when if he arise 
and go to Him, his Father will not see 
him afar off, and have compassion upon 
him. In this faith, which she has so 
often sung, she lived and wrought and 
hoped ; and in this faith, which grew 
stronger, deeper, and more assured 
with years of sorrow and trial and sick- 
ness, she passed from death unto life." 

The friends who shared so long the 
hospitality of her home, as they turn 
their eyes toward the closed doors of 
that home, finally bereft, well as they 
knew her and truly as they loved her, 
cannot dream of half the plans for their 
happiness and comfort that went out 
when that faithful heart ceased to beat. 
Nor was it of her friends only whom 
she thought. Long after suffering had 
separated her forever from the active 
world, she took just as keen an interest 
in its great affairs as if still participat- 
ing in them. Even when the shadows 
of eternity were stealing over her, noth- 
ing that concerns this mortal life seemed 
to her paltry or unimportant. She 
wanted all her friends to come into her 
room and tell her everything about the 
life from which she was shut out. She 
took the deepest interest in everything 
human, from the grandest affair of state 



38 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHQLBE CARY. 



to " poor old Mrs. Brown's last cap," 
which she persisted in making when so 
feeble that she could scarcely draw her 
needle through its lace. Yet this inter- 
est in human affairs did not shut from 
her gaze the things " unseen and eter- 
nal." She said to me one morning, 
after a night of suffering, " While you 
are all asleep, I lie here and think on 
the deep things of eternity, of the un- 
known life. I find I must leave it still 
with God, and trust Him ! " 

One of the last things she said to me 
was, " If you could see all the flowers 
brought into this room by friends piled 
up, it seems to me they would reach to 
heaven. I am certainly going toward 
it on flowery beds, if not beds of ease." 

And her last words to me, with a 
radiant smile, were, " When you come 
back, you will find me so much better I 
shall come and stay with you a week. 
So we won't say good-by." Thus in one 
sense we never parted. Yet my only 
regret in thinking of her, is that life 
with its relentless obligations withheld 
me from her in her very last days. It 
is one of those unavailing regrets on 
which death has set his seal, and to 
which time can bring no reparation. 

For her sake let me say what, as a 
woman, she could be, and was, to an- 
other. She found me with habits of 
thought and of action unformed, and 
with nearly all the life of womanhood 
before me. She taught me self help, 
courage, and faith. She showed me 
how I might help myself and help 
others. Wherever I went, I carried 
with me her love as a treasure and a 
staff. How many times I leaned upon it 
and grew strong. It never fell from me. 
It never failed me. No matter how life 
might serve me, I believed without a 
doubt that her friendship would never 
fail me ; and it never did. If I faltered, 
she would believe in me no less. If I 
fell, her hand would be the first out- 
stretched to lift me up. All the world 
might forsake me ; yet would not she. 
I might become an outcast ; yet no less 
would I find in her a shelter and a 
friend. Yet, saying this, I have not 
and said, have no power to say, what 
as a soul I owe to her. 

These autumn days sharpen the 
keen sense of irreparable loss. These 
are the days that she loved ; in whose 



balsamic airs she basked, and renewed 
her life with ever fresh delight. These 
are the days in which she garnished 
her house for new reunions, in which 
she drew nearer to nature, nearer to 
her friends, nearer to her God. Octo- 
ber is here, serene as of old ; but she 
is not. Her house is inhabited by 
strangers. Her song is hushed. Her 
true heart is still. But life — the vast 
life whose mystery enthralled her — 
that remorselessly goes on. I laid a 
flower on her grave yesterday ; so to- 
day I offer this poor memorial to her 
name, because I loved her. 



CHAPTER VI. 

ALICE CARY. — THE WRITER. 

As an artist in literature Alice Cary 
suffered, as so many women in this 
generation do, for lack of thorough 
mental discipline and those reserved 
stores of knowledge which must be 
gathered and garnered in youth. When 
the burden and the heat of the day 
came, when she needed them most, 
she had neither time nor strength to 
acquire them. Her early youth was 
spent chiefly in household drudgery. 
Her only chance for study was in dear 
snatches at books between her tasks, 
and by the kitchen fire through the 
long winter evenings. Referring to 
this period of her life, she said : — 

"In my memory there are many 
long, dark years of labor at variance 
with my inclinations, of bereavement, 
of constant struggle, and of hope de- 
ferred." 

Thus, when her life-work and work 
for life came, she did it under the most 
hampering disadvantages, and often 
amid bodily suffering which any ordi- 
nary woman would have made ..a suffi- 
cient excuse for absolute dependence 
upon others. Thus it was with her as 
with so many of her sisters. So much 
of woman's work is artistically poor, 
not from any poverty of gift, but for 
lack of that practical training of the 
faculties which is indispensable to the 
finest workmanship. The power is 
there, but not the perfect mastery of 
the power. Alice's natural endowment 



SPECULATIONS. 



39 



of mind and soul was of the finest and 
rarest ; yet as an artistic force, she 
used it timidly, and at times awkwardly. 
She never, to her dying hour, reached 
her own standard ; never, in any form 
of art, satisfied herself. 

About ten years ago she wrote to a 
friend in the West: " 1 am ashamed 
of my work. The great bulk of what 

I have written is poor stuff. Some of 
it, maybe, indicates ability to do better 
— that is about all. I think I am more 
simple and direct, less diffuse and 
encumbered with ornament than in 
former years, all, probably, because I 
have lived longer and thought more." 

In dealing with two forces, hers was 
the touch of mastery. As an inter- 
preter of the natural world she was un- 
surpassed. And when she spoke from 
her own, never did she fail to strike 
the key-note to the human heart. Her 
absorbing love for nature, inanimate 
and human, her oneness with it, made 
her what she was, a poet of the people. 
She knew more of principles than of 
persons, more of nature than of either. 
Her mind was introspective. Instinct- 
ively she drew the very life of the uni- 
verse into her soul, and from her soul 
sent it forth into life again. By her 
nothing in nature is forgotten or 
passed by. " The luminous creatures 
of the air," the cunning workers of the 
ground, " the dwarfed flower," and the 

II drowning mote," each shares some- 
thing of her great human love, which, 
brooding over the very ground, rises 
and merges into all things beautiful. 
One can only wonder at the reverent 
and observant faculties, the widely em- 
bracing heart, which makes so many of 
God's loves its own. The following 
is a verse in her truest vein : — 

" Oh for a single hour 
To have life's knot of evil and self- 
blame 
All straightened, all undone ! 
As in the time when fancy had the 
power 
The weariest and forlornest day to 
bless, 
At sight of any little common flower, 
That warmed her pallid fingers in 

the sun, 
And had no garment but her loveli- 
ness.'''' 



After having lived in the city for 
twenty years, with not even a grassy 
plat of her own on which to rest her 
feet, the country sights and sounds, 
which made nearly thirty years of her 
life, faded into pictures of the past. 
In these days "life's tangled knot of 
evil," the phenomena of human exist- 
ence, absorbed chiefly her heart and 
faculties. Much of the result of her 
questionings and replies we find in her 
"Thoughts and Theories." Even these 
are deeply veined with her passionate 
love of nature, though she speaks of 
it as a companion of the past. She 
says : — 

" I thank Thee that my childhood's 

vanished days 
Were cast in rural ways, 
Where I beheld, with gladness ever 

new, 
That sort of vagrant dew 
Which lodges in the beggarly tents of 

such 
Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain 

to touch, 
And with rough-bearded burs, night 

after night, 
Upgathered by the morning, tender 

and true, 
Into her clear, chaste light. 

" Such ways I learned to know 
That free will cannot go 
Outside of mercy ; learned to bless 

his name 
Whose revelations, ever thus re- 
newed 
Along the varied year, in field and 
wood, 
His loving care proclaim. 

" I thank Thee that the grass and the 
red rose 
Do what they can to tell 

How spirit through all forms of matter 
flows ; 

For every thistle by the common way, 

Wearing its homely beauty ; for each 
spring 

That, sweet and homeless, runneth 
where it will ; 
For night and day ; 

For the alternate seasons, — every- 
thing 

Pertaining to life's marvelous mira- 
cle." 



40 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 



But these later poems, with all their 
spiritual thought and insight, with 
all their tender retrospection, never 
equaled in freshness and fullness of 
melody, in a nameless rush of music, 
her first lyrics ; those lyrics written 
when the young soul, attuned to every 
sound in nature, thrilling with the first 
consciousness of its visible and invisi- 
ble life, like the reed of Pan, gave it 
all forth in music at the touch of every 
breeze. No wonder that so many pil- 
grims out in the world turned and lis- 
tened to the first notes of a song so 
natural and " piercing sweet." To the 
dusty wayfarer the freedom and fresh- 
ness and fullness of the winds and 
waves swept through it. Listen : — 

" Do you hear the wild birds calling ? 

Do you hear them, O my heart ? 
Do you see the blue air falling 

From their rushing wings apart ? 

" With young mosses they are flock- 
ing, 

For they hear the laughing breeze 
With dewy fijigers rocking 

Their light cradles in the trees ! " 

And here is one of her early contri- 
butions to the " National Era," writ- 
ten before she was known to fame, and 
before she was paid money for her 
writing. 

TO THE WINDS. 

Talk to my heart, O winds — 
Talk to my heart to-night ; 

My spirit always finds 
With you a new delight — 

Finds always new delight, 

In your silver talk at night. 

Give me your soft embrace 
As you used to long ago, 

In your shadowy trysting-place, 
When you seemed to love me so — 

When you sweetly kissed me so, 

On the green hills, long ago. 

Come up from your cool bed, 

In the stilly twilight sea, 
For the dearest hope lies dead 

That was ever dear to me ; 
Come up from your cool bed, 
And we '11 talk about the dead. 



Tell me, for oft you go, 

Winds — lovely winds of night — 
About the chambers low, 

With sheets so dainty white, 
If they sleep through all the night 
In the beds so chill and white ? 

Talk to me, winds, and say 

If in the grave be rest, 
For, oh ! Life's little day 

Is a weary one at best ; 
Talk to my heart and say 
If Death will give me rest. 

In her minor lyrics of this period, 
those singing of some sad human ex- 
perience, we find the same intimate 
presence of natural objects, the same 
simple, inimitable pictures of country 
life. I was a young girl when the fol- 
lowing stanzas first met my eye. The 
exquisite sensation which thrilled me 
when I read them, was among the 
never-to-be-forgotten experiences of a 
life-time. It was as if I had never 
read a poem before, and had but just 
received a new revelation of song ; 
though the soul from whence it came 
was to me but a name. 

Very pale lies Annie Clayville, 

Still her forehead, shadow-crowned, 
And the watchers hear her saying, 

As they softly tread around — 
"Go out, reapers ! for the hill-tops 

Twinkle with the summer's heat ; 
Lay out your swinging cradles, 

Golden furrows of ripe wheat ! 
While the little laughing children, 

Lightly mingling work with play, 
From between the lon£ green win- 



rows 



Glean the sweetly-scented hay, 
Let your sickles shine like sunbeams 

In the silvery flowing rye ; 
Ears grow heavy in the corn fields 

That will claim you by and by. 
Go out, reapers, with your sickles, 

Gather home the harvest store ! 
Little gleaners, laughing gleaners, ' 

I shall go with you no more ! " 

Round the red moon of October, 

White and cold, the eve stars climb ; 

Birds are gone, and flowers are dying — 
'T is a lonesome, lonesome time ! 

Yellow leaves along the woodland 
Surge to drift ; the elm-bough sways, 



LAST POEMS. 



41 



Creaking at the homestead window. 

All the weary nights and days ; 
Dismally the rain is falling, 

Very dismally and cold i 
Close within the village grave-yard, 

By a heap of freshest ground, 
With a simple, nameless head-stone, 

Lies a low and narrow mound ; 
Anil the brow of Annie Clayville 

Is no longer shadow-crowned. 

st thee, Inst one ! rest thee calmly, 

Glad to go where pain is o'er ; 
Where they say not. through the night- 
time, 

" I am weary ! " any more. 

In her verses "To an Early Swal- 
low," written within a year or two of 
her death, we find lines which revive 
much of the exquisite imagery which 
made her earlier lyrics so remarkable. 
She says : — 

My little bird of the air. 
If thou dost know, then tell me the 

sweet reason 
Thou comest alway, duly in thy season, 

To build and pair. 
For still we hear thee twittering round 

the eaves, 
Ere yet the attentive cloud of April 

lowers, 
Up from their darkened heath to call 
the flowers, 
Where, all the rough, hard weather, 
They kept together, 
Under their low brown roof of withered 
leaves. 

And for a moment still 

Thy ever-tuneful bill, 
And tell me, and I pray thee tell me 

true, 
If any cruel care thy bosom frets, 
The while thou flit test ploughlike 
through the air — 

Thy wings so swift and slim, 

Turned downward, darkly dim, 
Like furrows on a ground of violets. 

Xay, tell me not, my swallow, 

But have thy pretty way, 

And prosperously follow 

The leading of the sunshine all the 

day. 
Thy virtuous example 
Maketh my foolish questions answer 

ample — 



It is thy large delights keeps open 
wide 

Thy little mouth ; thou hast no pain 
to hide ; 

And when thou leavest all the green- 
topped woods 

Pining below, and with melodious floods 

Flatterest the heavy clouds, it is, I 
know, 

Because, my bird, thou canst not choose 
but go 
Higher and ever higher 
Into the purple fire 

That lights the morning meadows with 
heart\s-ease, 

And sticks the hill-sides full of prim- 
roses. 

But tell me, my good bird, 
If thou canst tune thy tongue to any 

word, 
Wherewith to answer — pray thee tell 
me this : 
Where gottest thou thy song, 
Still thrilling all day long, 
Silvered to fragments by its very bliss ! 
Not, as I guess, 
Of any whistling swain, 
With cheek as richly russet as the grain 
Sown in his furrows; nor, I further 
guess, 
Of any shepherdess, 
Whose tender heart did drag 
Through the dim hollows of her golden 
flag 
After a faithless love — while far 

and near, 
The waterfalls, to hear, 
Clung by their white arms to the cold, 
deaf rocks, 
And all the unkempt flocks 
Strayed idly. Nay, I know, 
If ever any love-lorn maid did blow 
Of such a pitiful pipe, thou didst not get 
In such sad wise thy heart to music set. 

So, lower not down to me 
From its high home thy ever-busy 

wing; 
I know right well thy song was shaped 
for thee 
By His unwearying power 
Who makes the days about the Easter 

flower 
Like gardens round the chamber of a 
king. 
And whether, when the sobering 
year hath run 



42 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 



His brief course out, and thou away 

dost hie 
To find thy pleasant summer company ; 
Or whether, my brown darling of the 

sun, 
When first the South, to welcome up 

the May, 
Hangs wide her saffron gate, 
And thou, from the uprising of the day 
Till eventide in shadow round thee 

closes, 
Pourest thy joyance over field and 

wood, 
As if thy very blood 
Were drawn from out the young hearts 

of the roses — 

'T is all to celebrate, 
And all to praise 
The careful kindness of His gracious 
ways 
Who builds the golden weather 
So tenderly about thy houseless 

brood — 
Thy unfledged, homeless brood, and 
thee together. 

Ah ! the^e are the sweet reasons, 
My little swimmer of the seas of air, 
Thou comest, goest, duly in thy sea- 
son ; 
And furthermore, that all men every- 
where 
May learn from thy enjoyment 
That that which maketh life most good 
and fair 
Is heavenly employment. 

In the very latest of her suffering 
days, Alice Cary longed with longings 
unutterable to bring back as a living 
presence to herself every scene which 
inspired those early songs. In her 
portfolio lie her last manuscripts just 
as she left them, copied, each one, sev- 
eral times, with a care and precision 
which, in her active and crowded days, 
she never attempted ; copied in the 
new chirography which she compelled 
her hand to acquire, a few months be- 
fore it was laid upon her breast, idle at 
last, in the rest of death. These late 
songs breathe none of the faintness of 
death. Rather they ring with the first 
lyric fervor ; they cry out for, and call 
back, within the very shadow of the 
grave, the woman's first delights. Wit- 
ness these in this " Cradle Song," cop- 



ied three times by her own hand, and 
never before published. 

CRADLE SONG. 

All the air is white with snowing, 

Cold and white — cold and white ; 
Wide and wild the winds are blowing, 
Blowing, blowing wide and wild. 
Sweet little child, sweet little child, 
Sleep, sleep, sleep little child: 
Earth is dark, but heaven is 

bright — 
Sleep, sleep till the morning light : 
Some must watch, and some must 

weep, 
And some, little baby, some may 

sleep : 
So, good-night, sleep till light; 
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night ! 

Folded hands on the baby bosom, 
Cheek and mouth rose-red, rose- 
sweet ; 

And like a bee's wing in a blossom, 
Beat, beat, beat and beat, 
So the heart keeps going, going, 
While the winds in the bitter snow- 
ing 

Meet and cross — cross and meet — 

Heaping high, with many an eddy, 

Bars of stainless chalcedony 
All in curves about the door, 
Where shall fall no more, no more, 
Longed-for steps, so light, so light. 

Little one, sleep till the moon is low, 
Sleep, and rock, and take your rest ; 

Winter clouds will snow and snow, 
And the winds blow east, and the 
winds blow west 

Some must come, and some must go, 

And the earth be dark, and the heavens 
be bright : 
Never fear, baby dear, 

Wrong things lose themselves in right ; 
Never fear, mother is here, 

Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night. 

O good saint, that thus eniboldenest 

Eyes bereaved to see, to-night, 
Cheek the rosiest, hair the goldenest, 

Ever gladdened the mother sight. 
Blessed art thou to hide the willow, 

Waiting and weeping over the dead, 
With the softest, silkenest pillow 

Ever illumined hair o'erspread. 
Never had cradle such a cover ; 

All my house with light it fills ; 



BALLADS. 



43 



Over and under, under and o 

'Broidered leaves of the daffodils ! 
All away from the winter weather, 
Baby,wrapt in your 'broideries bright, 
■p. nor watch any more for lather — 
Father will not come home to-night 
Angels now are round about him. 
In the heavenly home on high : 
We must learn to do without him — 
■me must live, and some must die. 
ly, sweetest ever was born, 
ut little blue eyes, sleep till morn : 
Rock ami sleep, and wait for the 
light, 
i:her will not come home to-night 
Winter is wild, but winter closes ; 
The snow in the nest of the bird will lie, 
And the bird must have its little cry ; 
Yet the saddest day doth swiftly run, 
Up o'er the black cloud shines the sun, 
And when the reign of the frost is done 
The Mav will come with roses, roses — 
Green-leaved grass, and red-leaved 

roses — 
Roses, roses, roses, roses, 
Roses red, and lilies white. 
Sleep little baby, sleep, sleep ; 
Some must watch, and some must 

weep ; 
Sweetly sleep till the morning light, 
Lullaby, lullaby, and good-night. 

By its side lies another manuscript, 
evidently written later. In it the same 
erect, clear writing is attempted, but 
the hand wavered and would not obey 
the will ; the lines tremble, and at last 
grow indistinct. The poem begun was 
never finished. As the tailing hand, 
the yearning soul left it. word by word, 
it is here given : — 

Give me to see, though only in a dream, 
Though only in an unsubstantial dream, 
The dear old cradle lined with leaves of 

moss, 
And daily changed from cradle into 

cross, 
What time athwart its dull brown wood, 

a beam 
Slid from the gold deeps of the sunset 

shore, 
Making the blur of twilight white and 

fair, 
Like lilies quivering in the summer 

air : 
And my low pillow like a rose full- 
blown. 



Oh, give mine eyes to see once more, 
once more. 

My longing eyes to see this one time 
more. 
The shadows trembling with the 
wings of bats. 
And dandelions dragging to the door. 
And speckling all the grass about the 
door, 
With the thick spreading of their 
starry mats. 

Give me to see, I prav and can but 

pray, 
Oh, give me but to see to-day, to-day, 
The little brown-walled house where I 

was born : 
The gray old barn, the cattle-shed 

close by. 
The well-sweep, with its angle sharp 

and high ; 
The flax field, like a patch of fallen sky ; 
The millet harvest, colored like the 

corn, 
Like to the ripe ears of the new husked 

corn. 

And give mine eyes to see among the 

rest 
This rustic picture, in among the rest, 
For there and only there it doth belong, 
I, at fourteen, and in my Sunday best, 
Reading with voice unsteady my first 

song, 
The rugged verses of my first rude 

song. 

As a ballad writer she was never 
equaled by any American man or wom- 
an. She loved the ballad, and there 
is ever in hers a naive, arch grace of 
utterance, inimitable. In the ballad, 
hers was the very luxury of song. She 
never waited for a rhyme. Her rhythm 
rippled and ran with the fervor and 
fullness of a mountain brook after the 
springtime rains. Never quite over- 
taking it, she yet leaped and ran and 
sang with it in ever new delight. 
What a wild thrilling rush is there in 
such lines as these : — 

" Haste, good boatman ! haste ! " she 

cried, 
" And row me over the other side ! " 
And she stript from her finger the 

shining ring. 
And gave it me for the ferrying. 



44 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PUCE BE CARY. 



" Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go, 
For the wind is high and th' tide is 

low, 
And rocks like dragons lie in the 

wave, — 
Slip back on your finger the ring you 

gave ! " 

" Nay, nay ! for the rocks will be 

melted down, 
And the waters, they never will let me 

drown, 
And the wind a pilot will prove to 

thee, 
For my dying lover, he waits for me ! " 

Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur 
She put in my hand, but I answered 

her : 
" The wind is high and the tide is 

low, — 
I must not, dare not, and will not 

go!" 

Her face grew deadly white with pain, 
And she took her champing steed by 

th' mane, 
And bent h\s neck to th' ribbon and 

spur 
That lay in my hand, — but I answered 

her: 

" Though you should proffer me twice 

and thrice 
Of ring and ribbon and steed the 

price, — 
The leave of kissing your lily-like 

hand ! 
I never could row you safe to th' 

land." 

" Then God have mercy ! " she faintly 

cried, 
" For my lover is dying the other side ! 
O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway, 
Be parted, and make me a path, I pray ! " 

Of a sudden, the sun shone large and 

bright 
As if he were staying away the night, 
And the rain on the river fell as sweet 
As the pitying tread of an angel's 

feet. 



And spanning the water from edge to 
edge 
nbow si 
bridge, 



edge 
A rainbow stretched like a golden 



And I put the rein in her hand so fair, 
And she sat in her saddle th' queen o' 
th' air. 

And over the river, from edge to edge, 
She rode on the shifting and shimmer- 
ing bridge, 
And landing safe on the farther side, — 
'■" Love is thy conqueror, Death ! " she 
cried. 

The following is, perhaps, a more 
characteristic illustration of the pen- 
sive naturalness of her usual manner. 
Amid scores, it simply represents her 
utter ease of rhythm ; the blended real- 
ism and idealism of her thoughts and 
feelings : — 

And Margaret set her wheel aside, 
And breaking off her thread, 

Went forth into the harvest-field 
With her pail upon her head, — 

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood, 
With shining yellow bands, 

Through clover, lifting its red tops 
Almost unto her hands. 

Her ditty flowing on the air, 

For she did not break her song, 

And the water dripping o'er th' grass, 
From her pail as she went along, — 

Over the grass that said to her, 
Trembling through all its leaves, 

" A bright rose for some harvester 
To bind among his sheaves ! " 

And clouds of gay green grasshoppers 

Flew up the way she went, 
And beat their wings against their 
sides, 

And chirped their discontent. 

And the blackbird left the piping of 

His amorous, airy glee, 
And put his head beneath his wjng, — 

An evil sign to see. 

The meadow-herbs, as if they felt 
Some secret wound, in showers 

Shook down their bright buds till her 
way 
Was ankle-deep with flowers. 

Her personal acquaintance with all 
the flowers and herbs of wood and 



SCRAP-BOOA'S. 



45 



field was as intimate as that she had 
with people. She never generalizes in 
writing of them, but sets each one in 

her verse as she would in a vase, with 
the most delicate consciousness of its 
blending lights and shades A young 
Southern lady, who from childhood has 
been a loving student of Alice Carv's 
poetry, remarked at her funeral, that 
she believed she could find each flower 
of our .Middle States, and many of 
those of the South, mentioned with ap- 
preciation in some part of Alice Carv's 
poems. 

Yet nothing in her music touches one 
nearly as its manifold variations of 
the hymn of human life — now tender, 
pathetic, and patient : now grand with 
resignation and faith, uttered always 
with a child-like simplicity : telling, 
most of all. how the human heart can 
love and suffer, how it can believe and 
find rest. It was her all-embracing 
pity, her yearning love for the entire 
race of Adam, which made her song a 
personal power, an ever present con- 
solation to thousands of human souls 
who never measured her by any rule 
of poetic art. A friend who had loved 
her long, writing of her after death, 
said : — 

" Having passed one clay from her 
chamber of anguish, musing upon her 
despondency at being thus laid aside 
from active employment, we recount- 
ed her words at the bedside of an- 
other sufferer, who had never seen 
the afflicted poet. The latter, in re- 
ply, drew her common-place book from 
beneath her pillow, and pointed to 
poem after poem by Alice Cary, which 
had been her solace during wean- 
months and years of sickness and 
pain, and bade us give her greeting of 
gratitude to that unknown but beloved 
benefactor. Thus does the All-see- 
ing Father bless our unconscious in- 
fluence, and often make our seeming 
helplessness more potent for good 
than our best hours of purposed ef- 
fort." 

If the scrap-books of the land could 
to-day be drawn forth from their re- 
ceptacles, we should find that Alice 
Cary has a place as a poet in the 
hearts of the people, which no mere 
critic in his grandeur has ever allowed. 
Nor would these scrap-books be solely 



the property of "gushing" girls, and 

tearful women. The heart <>t man re- 
sponds scarcely less to her music. ( )ne 
of the most eminent and learned of 
living statesmen remarked, since her 
death, " It seems as if I had read al- 
most every poem that Alice Cary has 
ever written : at least my scrap-book 
is full of them." 

There is no sadder inequality than 
that which exists often between the 
estimate an author places upon some 
work that has been wrought from his 
soul and brain, and the one placed on 
it by a careless reader, or the average 
public. It is the very tissue of being, 
the life-blood of one. To the other, 
often, it is but mere words ; or, at most, 
an inartistic performance, whose best 
fate is to be superficially read and 
quickly forgotten. Nor is it the fault 
of this public that it is all unknowing 
of the time and tears, the patience and 
sorrow and love often inwrought in the 
book which it so lightly passes over. 
It has nothing to do with the individual 
life of the author ; yet no less its 
thoughtless and sometimes unjust 
judgment makes one of the hard facts 
of human life. There never was a 
more touching illustration of this than 
in Alice Cary's feeling toward her little 
book of poems called " A Lover's 
Diary," published by Ticknor and 
Fields, in 1868, and the average recep- 
tion of it. To the newspaper notices 
it seemed but a tame collection of love- 
songs, never thrilling and often weari- 
some. This was the most that it was 
to many. To her it was her soul's 
flower laid upon the grave of her dar- 
ling — the young sister who for so many 
years was the soul of her soul and the 
life of her life. It is the portrait of 
this sister (though casting but a dim 
shadow of her living loveliness) which 
graces the front of the book : and the 
dedication below it. so simple, un- 
feigned, sorrowful, and loving, is one of 
the most touching utterances in litera- 
ture. 

Here, and not here ! 
When following care about my house I 
tread 
Sadly, and all so slowly, 
There often seemeth to be round me 
spread 



4 6 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



A blessed light, as if the place were 
holy; 
And then thou art near. 

Lost, and not lost ! 
When silence taketh in the night her 
place, 
And I my soul deliver 
All to sweet dreaming of thy sovereign 

grace, 
I see the green hills on beyond the 
river 
Thy feet have crossed. 

And so, my friend, 
I have and hold thee all the while I 
wait, 
Musing and melancholy ; 
And so these songs to thee I dedicate, 
Whose song shall flow henceforth se- 
rene and holy, 
Life without end. 

For dear, dear one, 
Even as a traveler, doomed alone to 
go 
Through some wild wintry valley, 
Takes in his poor, rude hand the way- 
side snow 
And shapes it to the likeness of a 
lily, . 
So have I done ; 

That while I wove 
Lays that to men's minds haply might 
recall 
Some bower of bliss unsaddened, 
Moulding and modulating one and all 
Upon thy life, so many lives that glad- 
dened 
With light and love. 

Elmina Cary, the youngest child of 
Robert and Elizabeth Cary, seemed to 
take the place in Alice's heart and 
care, filled by the little sister Lucy in 
her youth. Elmina, who was married 
in early girlhood to Mr. Alexander 
Swift of Cincinnati, in her health very 
soon showed symptoms of the family 
fate. Marked by death at twenty, she 
lingered eleven years. A portion of this 
time her home was in New York. The 
air of Cincinnati was harsh for her, and 
needing always in her decline the. min- 
istry of her sisters, she spent much 
time with them, and died in their home. 
She was especially dependent upon 



Alice, as Phcebe says : " Greatly her 
junior, and of feeble frame, she was 
her peculiar care, a sister, child, and 
darling." She slowly faded from the 
earth, day by day growing lovelier to 
the last. She had the face and nature 
of Alice, touched with the softness of 
dependence, and the delicate contour 
of youth. She was of especial loveli- 
ness, with a face to inspire a painter : 
oval, olive-tinted, crowned with masses 
of dark hair, lit with a pair of dark eyes 
as steadfast as planets and as shining 
as stars. All innocence and tender- 
ness, many friends of Alice and Phcebe 
remember this younger sister as the 
gentlest genius of their household. 
She possessed the gift divine of her 
family — was a poet in temperament 
and heart, as she must have been in 
utterance, had she lived. As it was, 
she wiled away many hours and years 
of pain in weaving together the bal- 
lads and hymns and artless stories of 
life, which thronged her heart and 
brain. 

Wearing "the rose of womanhood" 
in perfect loveliness, she faded away 
from the world, leaving no sign save in 
the hearts that loved her. There are 
women striving now to gather into their 
ripening souls the grace of patience, 
and that bright serenity which is its 
finest charm, who feel that it is easier 
to reach because she lived and because 
they loved her. And there are men 
wrestling in the world, their days 
crowded with its weary affairs, who 
nevertheless carry this woman's mem- 
ory like a flower in their hearts, thank- 
ing God for it. For no man finds in a 
woman's soul the revelation of a rarer 
self, receiving it into his heart as the 
incentive toward a better life, who ever 
loses it wholly, or who ever forgets the 
gentle face that was its visible type. 

When, in 1862, she died, Alice wrote : 
" My darling is dead. My hands are 
empty ; my work seems done." From 
that hour, till the " Lover's Diary " 
was published in 1868, Alice, amid her 
arduous toils, was writing these songs 
in her praise, and for her sake. 

When the book was done, she laid it 

in the hand of a friend, saying, with 

tears in her eyes, " It will be something 

to you, for you knew her." Its pre- 

I vailing fault is its monotony. The 



"AfOJVA SICK 



47 



sameness of its rhythm, and the con- 
stant repetition of one name, is sure to 
tire a reader alter a few consecutive 
pages, if he knows nothing o\ its his- 
tory, and never knew or loved person- 
ally its subject. And yet no apprecia- 
feor of true poetry can turn over its 
leaves without a constantly recurring 
sense of surprise at the exquisite 
beauty of phrase, and tenderness of 
rhythm running through the minor 
lyrics. Phoebe says 01 them : " I do 
not know how this book may affect 
others ; but to me some of the poems 
have a most tearful and touching pa- 
thos. ' Mona Sick ' is perhaps one of 
the saddest and sweetest." Read as 
the rhythmic utterance of absolute 
truth — the heart's real cry over a 
loved one dying, and that loved one a 
sister — what a sacred sound these 
lines take on ! 

•• Low lying in her pallid pain, 

A rlower that thirsts and dies for rain, 

I see her night and day : 
And every heart-beat is a cry, 
And every breath I breathe a sigh — 

Oh, for the May, the May ! 



" All the dreaming is broken through ; 
Both what is done and undone I rue. 
Nothing is steadfast and nothing 

true, 
But your love for me and my love for 

you, 
My dearest, dear little heart. 

" The time is weary, the year is old, 
The light o' the lily burns close to 

the mould ; 
The grave is cruel, the grave is cold, 
But the other side is the city of gold, 
My dearest, dear little heart." 

Coldly as this little book was re- 
ceived at its publication, more of its 
lyrics are afloat on the great news- 
paper sea to-day than ever before ; 
while several of them have been in- 
corporated in standard books of poet- 
ry. There is one, than which Charles 
Kingsley or Alfred Tennyson never 
sang a sweeter, which has drifted to 
Europe and back, and been appropri- 
ated in a hundred ways, whose last 
stanza runs : — 



" The fisher droppeth his net in the 

stream. 
And a hundred streams are the 

same as one ; 
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit 

dream ; 
And what is it all, when all is 

done ? 
The net of the fisher the burden 

breaks, 
And always the dreaming the dreamer 

wakes." 

It was in attempting to deal with 
more material and cruder forces that 
Alice Cary failed. In the more com- 
prehensive sense, she never learned 
the world. In her novels, attempting 
to portray the faults and passions of 
men and women, we find her rudest 
work. Her mastery of quaintness, of 
fancy, of naturalistic beauty penetrated 
with pathetic longing, tinged with a 
clear psychological light, revealing the 
soul of nature and of human life from 
within, all give to her unaffected utter- 
ances an inexpressible charm. But the 
airy touch, the subtle insight, which 
translated into music the nature which 
she knew, stumbled and fell before the 
conflicting deformity of depraved hu- 
manity. The dainty imagination which 
decked her poetic forms with such ex- 
quisite grace could not stand in the 
stead of actual knowledge ; usurping 
its prerogative, it degenerated into 
caricature. She held in herself the 
primal power to portray human life in 
its most complex relations, and most 
profound significance. She missed the 
leisure and the experience which to- 
gether would have given her the mas- 
tery of that power. Jt wrestled with 
false, and sometimes unworthy mate- 
rial. The sorrows and wrongs of 
woman, the injustice of man, the high- 
est possibilities of human nature, she 
longed to embody them all in the forms 
of enduring art. A life already near- 
ly consumed, sickness, weariness, and 
death, said No. Her novels are 
strong with passages of intense feel- 
ing ; we feel through them the surges 
of a wild, unchained power ; but as 
broad, comprehensive portraitures of 
human life, as the finest exponents of 
the noble nature from which they 
emanated, they are often unworthy of 



4 8 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



her. In interpreting nature, she never 
failed. Her " Clovernook Stories," 
her first in prose which reproduced 
perfectly the life that she knew," are 
pure idyls of country life and charac- 
ter, and in their fresh, original charm 
deserve their place amid the classics 
of English speech. In the utterance 
of natural emotion, crossed in its very 
pathos with psychical thought, surely 
she was never surpassed. I give an 
illustration from "An Old Maid's 
Story," in her " Pictures of Country 
Life." 

" When he spoke of the great here- 
after, when our souls that had crossed 
their mates, perhaps, and perhaps left 
them behind, or gone unconsciously 
before them, dissatisfied and longing 
and faltering all the time ; and of the 
deep of joy they would enter into on 
recognizing fully and freely the other 
self, which, in this world, had been so 
poorly and vaguely comprehended, if 
at all ; what delicious tremor, half fear 
and half fervor, thrilled all my being, 
and made me feel that the dust of time 
and the barriers of circumstance, the 
dreary pain oi a life separated from all 
others, death itself, all were nothing 
but shadows passing between me and 
the eternal sunshine of love. I could 
afford to wait, I could afford to be pa- 
tient under my burdens, and to go 
straight forward through all hard fates 
and fortunes, assured that I should 
know and be known at last, love and 
be loved in the fullness of a blessed- 
ness, which, even here, mixed with bit- 
terness as it is, is the sweetest of all. 
What was it to me that my hair was 
black, and my step firm, while his hair 
to whom I listened so reverentially was 
white, and his step slow, if not feeble. 
What was it that he had more wisdom, 
and more experience than I, and what 
was it that he never said, * You are 
faintly recognized, and I see a germ 
close-folded, which in the mysterious 
processes of God's Providence may 
unfold a great white flower.' We had 
but crossed each other in the long 
journey, and I was satisfied, for I felt 
that in our traversing up the ages, we 
should meet again." 

Another strong quality in much of 
her prose is its sturdy common sense. 
In her the poetical temperament never 



impinged on a keen, unclouded judg- 
ment. In dealing with all practical 
matters she was one of the most prac- 
tical of women. She betrays this 
quality in the utter directness with 
which she meets and answers many 
questions concerning every-da'y life and 
character. The last article in prose 
which she ever wrote, printed in the 
" New York Independent," was thus 
referred to by its editor : — 

" Lying upon her sick-bed, she who 
had never eaten the bread of idleness 
wrote for us the pungent denunciation 
of ' Shirks,' that appeared in the paper 
of February 2d. It was probably her 
very last article, and after that the 
weary hand that knew no shirking was 
still. She intended it to be the first of 
a series of ' semi-didactic articles ' — so 
she wrote us." 

It contained these words : — 

" Blessed, indeed, is that roof-tree 
which has no fungus attachment, and 
blessed the house that has no dilapi- 
dated chair and third-rate bed reserved 
in some obscure corner for poor Uncle 
John, or Aunt Nancy ! To be sure, 
there are Uncle Johns and Aunt Nancys 
who are honestly poor, and legitimately 
dependent — not guilty, but. simply 
unfortunate. It is not of such, how- 
ever, that I am discoursing ; they will 
come under another head. It is of 
that sort that go not out, even through 
fasting and prayer — your ' 1ruly-begot- 
ten shirks.'' 

" Talk of divine rights ! They are 
quite beyond that ; they do not seek 
to justify themselves. ' Dick, the ras- 
cal, has more than he knows how to 
spend!' says John. 'He will never 
miss the little I shall eat and drink.' 
And so it happens that a lank, dirty, 
coarse-shirted man, with an ill-flavored 
budget under his arm, and poverty of 
blood — for he is poor all through — 
skulks into John's house some morn- 
ing ; and woe the day, for he" never 
goes out. And after that, 'eternal 
vigilance is the price ' at which his 
snuffy handkerchief, clay pipe, and 
queer old hat are kept out of the draw- 
ing-room. 

""And after the same fashion Aunt 
Nancy quarters herself upon Susan ; 
bringing with her, perhaps, a broken- 
boned and flyaway cotton umbrella, a 



ALICE CARY'S RELIC, IOCS LIFE. 



49 



bandbox, and some old-fashioned duds 
that wore the finery oi her girlhood. 
There is some feeling of rebellion, 
some feeble effort toward riddance, on 
the part of the householders : but they 
are rich, and their doom is on them. 
And by and by things settle into un- 
quiet quiet : and John and Nancy 
are tolerated, if not accepted — being, 
whenever their habitual aggressiveness 
is inordinately aggravated, gotten back 
with gcrttle force into their accustomed 
dens. Thus, facing no responsibility, 
assuming no position in society, nor 
even in the household, recognizing no 
duty, they are dragged along. And 
when that call comes to which they 
perforce must answer. Here am I — 
that event that happeneth unto all, for 
which there is no evasion and no sub- 
stitute — they simply disappear. The 
world was no richer while they stayed, 
and it is no poorer now that they are 
gone. No single heart is bereft, even. 
The worm has eaten all the meat out of 
the shell, and has perished of the sur- 
feit and of indolence : and why should 
mourners go about the streets ? " 

Alice Cary was emphatically a work- 
er, yet she never for a moment be- 
lieved that mere industry could supply 
the lack of a mental gift. In an article 
of great power written for '• Packard's 
Monthly," she replied to Mr. Greeley 
on this subject, taking issue against 
him. It contained the following para- 
graph : — 

" I do not believe that a man always 
passes, in the long run, for what he is 
worth. It seems to me a hard saying. 
The vision that the poet or the painter 
transcribes and leaves a joy and a won- 
der to all time, may, I believe, have 
come all the same to some poor, un- 
lettered man, who, lacking the exter- 
nal faculty, so to speak, could not lay 
it in all its glorious shape and color 
on the canvas, or catch and hold it in 
the fastness of immortal verse. No, I 
cannot give up my comfortable faith, 
that in other worlds and far-off ages 
there will appear a shining multitude 
who shall, through death, have come 
to themselves, and have found expres- 
sion denied them on earth : beautiful 
souls, whose bodies were their prisons 
— who stammered or stood dumb 
among their kind, bearing alone the 
4 



slights and disgraces of fortune, and 

all the while conscious, in their dread 
isolation, of being peers of the poets 
and the kings, and of all the royal men 
and women of the world." 

Alice Cary lived to pass into that 
serene spiritual atmosphere which out- 
lies the emotions and passions of 
youth : where, in having outlived its 
love and sorrow, its loss and longing, 
no shadow fell between her soul and 
the Illimitable Love. Her "Thoughts 
and Theories n and " Hymns," con- 
tained in the volume of her poems 
published by Hurd and Houghton, 
1866, were chiefly the utterances of 
this period of her life. They called 
forth thousands of expressions of per- 
sonal thanks and regard from all over 
the land, and yet they failed of univer- 
sal recognition in the mere world of 
literature. They won little or no praise 
in places from whence she had a right 
to expect it. She considered them the 
best expressions of her mature power ; 
and the comparatively cold reception 
which she thought they received, es- 
pecially from some of her personal 
friends, was a cause of grief. Aside 
from all sympathy of friendship, my 
opinion is that these poems never 
received justice. Yet the cause was 
scarcely with friends or in the public ; 
but was a part of the untoward condi- 
tions of her life. She was forced to 
write too much. Her name was seen 
in print too often. This is one of the 
heaviest penalties which genius incurs 
in earning its living by a pen. Its 
name comes to have a market value, 
and is sold and used for that. Mere 
newspaper work, if tolerably well done, 
can bear this test for a long time. But 
it is death to poetry to write it " on 
time," or to sell it in advance for a 
name. Necessity forced Alice to do 
this so often that, while her name 
never lost its hold upon the masses, it 
came to be rated lower in the estima- 
tion of critics, and in some sense her 
sweetest lyrics sink to the value of 
rhymes in the minds of her friends. 
Many loved Alice as a friend, who 
ranked her low as a poet ; and she 
knew it. But, Jieavy as the outer tax 
upon it was, the deep inner spring of 
her inspiration never failed ; from it 
chiefly flowed the poems in this book. 



5o 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



Yet the excess of her daily labor was 
so much taken from its chances of suc- 
cess. Some of her warmest personal 
friends scarcely took the trouble to 
look within its covers, to see whether 
it contained rhymes or poems. They 
drank tea at her table, they waxed 
eloquent in her parlor, they knew 
Alice that she was one of the noblest 
and sweetest of women ; after that, 
what did it matter what she thought, 
or felt, or did ! 

They never dreamed that, when the 
lights were out, and the bright parlor 
closed, the woman sometimes sat down 
and wept for the word of encourage- 
ment that was not spoken, for the 
little meed of appreciation that was 
not proffered, which, could it have 
come from those whose judgment she 
valued, would have been new life and 
inspiration to her amid her ceaseless 
toil. 

No less this book of poems holds in 
thought and utterance many of the ele- 
ments of enduring existence. It must 
live, because it is poetry, embodying in 
exquisite rh^hm and phrase the soul 
of nature and of human life ; live in 
the heart of the future when we who 
criticised it, or passed it by, are dead 
and forgotten. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Alice's last summer. 

We have many proofs that a life de- 
voted to letters is favorable to longev- 
ity in women. With all the anxiety 
and care of following literature as a 
profession, with all the toil of obtaining 
a livelihood by it, they have as a rule 
lived to venerable years. A passionate 
yearning for continued human existence 
was a ruling characteristic of Alice 
Cary to her last conscious hour. She 
had inherited a constitutional tendency 
from her mother, which was unfavor- 
able to robust health or to long life. 
Yet with different habits of work and 
of life, established early and persist- 
ently pursued, even she might have 
won the longed for lease of life, and 
have added another to the list of ven- 
erable names, whom we delight to ven- 



erate among women of letters. Truly, 
some proof of this is to be found in the 
fact that her brothers, sons of the same 
mother, who have spent their lives on 
and near the old homestead farm in 
active, out-door, farmer life, are to-day 
strong, healthy, and robust men. 

Alice and Phcebe could not have 
been farmers, but in their twenty years 
of life in the city they could have fol- 
lowed, nearer than they did, the out- 
of-doors habits of their old country 
home. These barefooted rovers in 
country lanes, who grow up fostered 
by sunshine, air, and sky, the intimate 
friends of bees and birds, of horses and 
cows, of the cunning workers of the 
ground and the murmuring nations of 
the summer air ; these lovers of com- 
mon flowers with common names ; 
these rural queens who reigned supreme 
in their own kingdom, whose richest 
revenue to the day of their death was 
drawn from the wealth of nature left 
so far behind, in the full flower of their 
womanhood came to the great city, and 
began a new life, which the vitality of 
the old enabled them to endure for 
twenty years, but which drew con- 
stantly on their vital springs, without 
adding one drop to the sources of phys- 
ical health. To attain the highest suc- 
cess which they sought, they needed 
both the attrition and opportunities of 
the city. Had they added to this new 
life, for a third of every year, their old 
pastimes and old pursuits, they might 
have added years to their existence. 
But no human being, city bred, much 
less one country born, could have main- 
tained the highest health or have pro- 
longed existence in the hot air, with 
the sedentary habits, which made the 
daily life of Alice and Phcebe Cary for 
many years. The new life encroached 
upon the old vitality imperceptibly, and 
not until the very last year of their lives 
was either of them conscious of the 
fatal harm it had w r rought. They ex- 
changed the country habits and the 
familiar out-of-door haunts of the old 
farm for the roar of streets and the 
confining air of a city house. More- 
over, modest as this house was, it took 
much money to support it in such a 
place. This was all to be earned by 
the pen, and for many years it was 
earned almost exclusively by Alice. 



SEDEA ' TA R ) ' //.-/ BITS. 



5« 



With her natural independence, her 
tear of financial obligation, her hatred 
of debt, her desire tor a competency, 
her generous hospitality, it is easy to 
sec how heavy was the yoke of work 
which she wore. Dear soul ! she might 
have made it lighter, could she have 
believed it. As it was. even to the last 
was never free from its weight 
There came a time when her personal 
life was work, work, work. Then there 
was the shadow of death always on the 
house. Elmina, the youngest darling 
of all. was fading day by day from be- 
fore their eyes. Her outgoings were 
infrequent and uncertain. The leisure 
moments oi Alice and Phoebe were 
spent with her in her room. As she 
slowly failed, her sisters became more 
exclusively devoted to her. At last it 
came to pass that Alice rarely left the 
house except on some errand of neces- 
sity. 

After Elmina's death, as the sum- 
mers came round, she became more 
and more loth to leave her city home 

g 1 anywhere into the country. Not 
that her heart had let go of its old love 
of natural beauty, but because she came 
to dread journeys and the annoyance 
and inconvenience of traveling. What 
had been a necessity at times, during 
Elmina's life, remained a habit after 
her death. By this time Alice had her- 
self merged into the invalid of the fam- 
ily. The crisis had come when nature 
demanded change, recreation, and rest. 
She turned her back on all. When her 
friends were away, scattered among the 
hills and by the sea. Alice, left alone 
behind her closed blinds, was working 
harder and more continuously than 
ever. 

The stifling summers waxed and 
waned, the thermometer would rise and 
glare at ioo°, cars and stages would 
rattle beneath her windows, but through 
all the fiery heat, through all the wear- 
ing thunder of the streets, the tireless 
brain held on its fearful tension, and 
would not let go. Phoebe would spend 
a month in the country, and return 
with sea-weeds and mountain mosses 
and glowing cheeks and eyes, as tro- 
phies : but not so would Alice. Xot 
that she never left the city. She did 
sometimes, for a few days, but it was 
in a brief, protesting way, that had 



neither time nor chance to work her 
help or cure. As the sedentary habits 
of her life increased, and the circulation 
of her blood lowered, she had recourse 
more and more to artificial heat, till at 
last she and Phoebe lived in a temper- 
ature which in itself was enough to 
make health impossible. In the re- 
laxed condition inevitably produced by 
this furnace atmosphere, they were 
sometimes compelled to go into the 
out-door air, and more than one acute 
attack of sickness was the result to 
both sisters. 

These years of protracted labor, un- 
broken by recreation, unblessed by the 
resuscitating touch • of nature's heal- 
ing hand, brought to Alice, shy and 
shrinking from birth, greater shrink- 
ing, keener suffering, and a more abid- 
ing loneliness. She was never self- 
ishly isolated. There was never a 
moment in her life when tears did not 
spring to her eyes, and help from her 
hand at the sight of suffering in any 
living thing. She would go half-way 
to meet any true soul. She never 
failed in faith or devotion to her, 
friends. No less as the years went 
on, she felt interiorly more and more 
alone ; she shrank more into her own 
inward life, and more and more from 
all personal contact with the great un- 
known world outside of her own exist- 
ence. She had settled so deeply into 
one groove of life and labor, there 
seemed to be no mortal power that 
could wrest her out of it. She worked 
much, but it was not work that harmed 
her : she was sick, but was not sick 

; enough to die. The shadow of death, 
falling from her mother's life across so 
many of her sisters, was creeping 

\ slowly, surely up to her. No less 

; there was a time when it was in her 
power to have gone beyond it, out into 
the sunshine. She needed sunshine ; 

J she needed fresher, freer, purer air ; 

1 she needed change and rest. She 
needed a will, wiser and more potent 
than her own. to convince her of the 
inexorable laws of human life, and 
then compel her to their obedience. 

' She could never have entirely escaped 
the inevitable penalty of hereditary 
law : but that she might have delayed 
it to the outer line which marks the 
allotted time of average human life, no 



52 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



one finally believed more utterly than 
she did. Her disobedience of the 
laws of life was the result of circum- 
stance, of condition and of tempera- 
ment, rarely a willful fact ; no less she 
paid the penalty — by her so reluc- 
tantly, so protestingly, so pathetically 
paid — her life. 

At last, all that she had she would 
have given for her life, her human life, 
but it was too late. I dwell on the 
fact, for thousands are following her 
example, and are hurrying on to her 
fate. We hear so much of people dy- 
ing of work." Yet work rarely kills man 
or woman. If it is work at all, it is 
work done in violation of the primeval 
laws of life ; it is work which a com- 
pelling will wrings out from a dying or 
overtaxed body. 

Another summer — her last ; the 
ceaseless, eager worker, how was it 
with her now ? The low, quick rustle 
of her garments was no longer heard 
upon the stairs. The graceful form 
no longer bent over her desk : the face 
no longer turned from it, with the old 
thrilling glajice of welcome, to the 
favored comer allowed to pass the 
guarded door sacred to consecrated 
toil. 

That winter of mortal anguish had 
done more to wreck Alice Cary, than 
all the years which she had lived be- 
fore. The rounded contours were 
wasted, the abundant locks, just 
touched with gray, were bleached 
white, the colorless skin was tightly 
drawn upon the features ; for the first 
time she looked a wreck of her former 
self. Yet she was a beautiful wreck ; 
the splendor of her eyes made her 
that. No agony, no grief, had been 
able to make their lustre less ; till they 
closed in death, their tender glory 
never went out. She was almost a 
helpless prisoner now. She could not 
take a step save on crutches. She 
could not stir without help. Yet that 
which no power of entreaty could 
move her to do the summer before, 
she now longed to do at any hazard. 
The thunder of the streets had be- 
come intolerable to her tortured nerves 
and brain. The very friends who had 
urged her to leave the city the year 
before, now believed, in her helpless 
condition, that her going would be im- 



appear- 



possible. No less she went, — first to 
Northampton. 

A correspondent of the " New York 
Tribune " writes thus of her 
ance at Round Hill : — 

" Alice, during a few weeks past, 
has been used to sit on the same east 
porch, when the sunsets have been 
particularly fine, and then the cane- 
seat rocking-chair of the dark-eyed 
poetess has become a sort of throne. 
A respectful little group has always 
been gathered about it, and whenever 
it used to be whispered about of an 
evening, that Alice Cary had come out. 
somehow the tide of promenaders used 
to set more and more in that direction, 
but always in a quiet and reticent man- 
ner, just to get a glimpse of her, you 
know, while accidentally passing her 
chair. I believe that she dropped 
among the Round Hill people early 
one day in August, and was so quiet 
that she was regarded as a sort of 
myth by most of the frequenters of the 
place, never going into the dining- 
room nor into the great parlor, bigger 
than a barn ; but the people said she 
was there, and that she invested the 
house with an unusual interest. Her 
city home, however snugly appointed, 
cannot, I am sure, compensate one 
like her for the loss of country air, 
country sights, and country sounds." 
This writer apparently realized not her 
helpless state. At that time she could 
not rise in her chair to take her 
crutches without assistance. Yet as 
she sat there with, the scarlet shawl 
thrown over her white robe, contrast- 
ing so vividly with palid face and 
brilliant eyes, she made a lovely pict- 
ure, to which many allusions have 
been made in public print since she 
passed away. The following is from 
Laura Redden (" Howard Glyndon "), 
a woman who, under life-long affliction, 
embodies in her own character the 
beautiful patience and peace which she 
felt so intuitively and perfectly in our 
friend. 

" I knew her in every way, except 
through her own personality. I knew 
her through others ; through her writ- 
ings ; through the interpretation of my 
own heart ; and I remember very well, 
that once, when broken in health and 
saddened in spirit, I felt an undefina- 



AT NORTHAMPTON 



53 



ble impulse to go to her, and knew 
that it would do me good to do so. 

But I stopped, and asked myself, 
• Will it do her any good ? What can 

jive in return for what I tak 
And I dismissed the impulse as self- 
ish. I had. in spirit, gone up to the 
very door that stood between us, and 
after hesitating, as 1 stood beside it, I 
went away. But while I stood there, 
I thought of the meek, sweet sufferer 
on the other side. ' She has so much 
more to crush her than I have, but she 
does not let herself be crushed,' I said. 
Then I felt ashamed and went away, 
resolving to murmur less, and to strug- 
gle more for strength and patience. I 
really believe that standing on the 
other side of the door did me almost 
as much good as going in would have 
clone. 

*• Later, when I came to Northamp- 
ton, I found that she was under the 
same root* with me. But when some 
one said. ' Would you like to see her ? ' 
and it seemed as if the door stood ajar, 
I drew back, without knowing why, 
and said, ; Xo, not now.' 

*■ Once, when I sat reading under 
the trees, she came out leaning upon 
her two friends, one on each side. 
They spread a gay shawl on the grass 
for her, and she sat there under the 
shining light which came through the 
trees, and enjoyed the delicious calm 
of a cool, summer, Sabbath afternoon. 
How pale and worn and weak she 
looked, but how bright and unself- 
ish through it all ! I watched her, 
unseen, and I prayed very earnestly 
that God would bless the pure coun- 
try air and the country quiet to her. 
She thought then that they made her 
better : but there were greener past- 
ures and purer breezes in store for her, 
and she was not to stay long away from 
them. 

•• I remember another evening that 
she came out on the east porch, and 
sat long in the dusk of the twilight. 
I sat so close that my garments brushed 
hers — but in the dark — quiet, unseen, 
and unknown ; and I was glad to have 
it so. Somehow there was an undefin- 
able charm in holding this relation to a 
person in whom I had so large an in- 
terest. It was so much better to feel 
that I knew her than it would have 



been to realize that she knew me. It 
seemed .is it formal words would have 
taken away all this charm. Whenever 
my hand was upon the handle of the 
door, I drew it awav again and said, 
• Wait ! ' 

" When I heard the next morning 
that she was gone, I was sorry — not 
sorry that I had not spoken to her, but 
only sorry that she was gone. The 
place had lost half its beauty for me." 

Alice, who had promised a dear 
friend to visit her in her home in North- 
ern Vermont, went thither from North- 
ampton. Faithful hands served her, 
strong, gentle arms bore her on, in 
this last struggle for life. " How I 
was ever to get out of the cars, I did 
not know ; the thought of it filled me 
with dread and terror," she said, "but 

there w r as to lift me out and carry 

me to the carriage. I never felt a jar, 
and when I sat down in the bay-win- 
dow, and saw the view before it, and 
felt the loving kindness which envel- 
oped me, it seemed as if I had reached 
heaven." 

These words are written in that room 
in which she sat by the window where 
she afterwards wrote her " Invalid's 
Plea." From this bay-window in which 
she sat, she looked through a vista of 
maples out upon a broad expanse of 
meadow-lawn, whose velvet turf is of 
the most vivid malachite green, soft- 
ened on its farther edge by a grove 
wherein the shades of spruce and pine, 
elm and maple, contrast and blend. 
Beyond these woods Lake Memphre- 
magog sets its glittering shield be- 
tween the hills. On its farther side 
green mountains arise till they hold 
the white clouds on their heads. Be- 
low, Jay Peak stands over four thou- 
sand feet above the sea, while above 
Owl's Head soars over three thousand, 
covered with forest to its summit. It 
is a picture fit for Paradise. Yet it is 
but one glimpse amid many of the in- 
expressible beauty of this lake and 
mountain country of the North. She, 
sitting here, looked out upon this con- 
summate scene ; looked with her ten- 
der, steadfast eyes across these emer- 
ald meadows, to the lake shining upon 
her through the opening hills, to the 
mountains smiling down on her from 
the distant heaven, their keen amethyst 



54 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND EUCEBE CARY. 



notching the deep, deep blue of a 
cloudless sky. The splendor of this 
northern world fell upon her like a new, 
divine revelation. The tonic in its at- 
mosphere touched her feeble pulses ; 
the peace brooding in its stillness pen- 
etrated her aching brain with the prom- 
ise of a new life. Without, the world 
was full of tranquillity ; within, it was 
full of affection and the words of lov- 
ing kindness. Then she wondered 
(and her wonder was sad with a hope- 
less regret) why summer after summer 
she had lingered in her city home, till 
the crash and roar of the streets, com- 
ing through her open windows, had 
filled body and brain with torture. 

" How blind I was ! " she exclaimed. 
" I said that I could not take the time 
from my work ; and now life has neither 
time nor work left for me. How much 
more, how much better I could have 
worked, had I rested. If I am spared, 
how differently I will do. I will come 
here every summer, and live" 

Alas ! before another summer, the 
winter snow had wrapped her forever 
from the eartfily sight of this unuttera- 
ble beauty. 

Hers from- the beginning was the 
fatal mistake of so many brain-workers 
— that all time given to refreshment 
and rest is so much taken from the 
results of labor ; forgetting, or not 
realizing, that the finer the instrument, 
the more fatal the effects of undue 
strain, the more imperative the neces- 
sity of avoiding over-wear and the per- 
petual jar of discordant conditions ; 
forgetting, also, that the rarest flower- 
ing of the brain has its root in silence 
and beauty and rest. 

Here in this window, whither she, 
wasted and suffering, had been borne 
by gentle arms, our dear friend wrote 
her " Invalid's Plea," one of 'the most 
touching of her many touching lyrics : 

"O Summer! my beautiful, beautiful 
Summer, 

I look in thy face and I long so to 
live ; 

But ah ! hast thou room for an idle 
new-comer. 

With all things to take and with noth- 
ing to give ? 

With all things to take of thy dear 
loving kindness — 



The wine of thy sunshine, the clew of 
thy air ; 

And with nothing to give but the deaf- 
ness and blindness 

Begot in the depths of an utter despair ? 

The little green grasshopper, weak as 
we deem her, 

Chirps day in and out for the sweet 
right to live ; 

And canst thou, O Summer ! make 
room for a dreamer. 

With all things to take and with noth- 
ing to give — 

Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in 
thy shadows. 

And all on thy daisy-fringed pillow to 
lie, 

And dream of the gates of the glori- 
ous meadows, 

Where never a rose of the roses shall 
die?" 



CHAPTER VIII. 
Alice's death and burial. 

When a dear one. dying willingly, 
lets go of life, the loosened hands by 
so much reconcile us to their going. It 
was not so with Alice. Through phys- 
ical suffering almost beyond precedent, 
through days and nights and years 
of hopeless illness, she yet clung to this 
life. Not through any lack of faith in 
the other and higher ; but because it 
seemed to her that she had not yet ex- 
hausted the possibilities, the fullness, 
and sweetness of this. She thought 
that there was a fruition in life, in its 
labor, its love, which she had never 
realized ; and even in dying she longed 
for it. 

The. autumn before her death, in a 
poem entitled, " The Flight of the 
Birds," she uttered this prayer : — 

" Therefore I pray, and can buf pray, 
Lord, keep and bring them back when 
May 

Shall come, with shining train, 
Thick 'broidered with leaves of wheat, 
And butterflies, and field-pinks sweet, 

And yellow bees, and rain. 

" Yea, bring them back across the seas 
In clouds of golden witnesses — 
The grand, the grave, the gay ; 






HER LAST POEM. 



55 



And if thy holy will it be, 
Keep me alive, once more to see 
The glad and glorious day." 

It could not be. "The golden wit- 
nesses "could only chant their spring- 
music above her couch of final rest. 
Yet within one month of death, she 
was busier than ever with plans of hap- 
piness for others. "Ohi if God only 
cou/ii\ti me live ten years longer." she 
said : " it seems as if I would n*t ask 
for any more time. I would live such 
a different life. I would never shut 
myself up in myself again. Then I 
would do something for my friends ! " 

Phoebe, writing of her last days, 
says : — 

"Though loving and prizing what- 
ever is good and lovely here, and keep- 
ing firm and tender hold of the things 
that are seen, yet she always reached 
one hand to grasp the unseen and 
eternal. She believed that God is not 
far from any one of us, and that the 
sweet communion of friends who are 
only separated by the shadowy cur- 
tain of death, might still remain un- 
broken. 

" During her last year of illness she 
delighted much in the visits of her 
friends : entered with keenest zest into 
their hopes and plans, and liked to 
hear of all that was going on in the 
world from which she was now shut. 
She talked much of a better country 
with those who came to talk to her 
upon the land to which her steps drew 
near : and so catholic and free from 
prejudice was her spirit, that many of 
those friends whom she loved best, and 
with whom she held the most sacred 
communion, differed widely from her- 
self in their religious faith. 

" She loved to listen to the reading 
of poetry and of pleasant stories, but 
not latterly to anything of an exciting 
or painful nature : and often wanted to 
hear the most tender and comforting 
chapters of the Gospels, especially 
those which tell of the Saviour's love 
for women. At the beginning of each 
month she had been accustomed for 
some time to furnishing a poem to one 
of our city papers. On the first of that 
month of which she never saw the end- 
ing, she was unable to write or even to 



when, speaking suddenly one day with 
something of the old energy, she asked 
to be placed in her chair, and to have 
her portfolio, saying, " That article 
must be ready to-day. She was helped 
from the bed as she desired, and though 
unable to sit up without being carefully 
supported, she completed the task to 
which she had set herself. The last 
stanza she wrote reads thus : — 

" i As the poor panting hart to the 
water-brook runs, 
As the water-brook runs to the sea, 
So earth's fainting daughters and fam- 
ishing sons, 
O Fountain of Love, run to Thee ! ' 

" The writing is trembling and un- 
certain, and the pen literally fell from 
her hand ; for the long shadows of 
eternity were stealing over her, and 
she was very near the place where it is 
too dark for mortal eyes to see, and 
where there is no work, nor device, nor 
I knowledge." 

She had written earlier what she 
herself called "A Dying Hymn," and it 
was a consolation to her to repeat it to 
herself in her moments of deepest 
agony. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes, and fades away ; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills : 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song ; 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat, 

My faith doth so abound, 
I feel grow firm beneath my feet 

The green, immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives, 

Low as the grave to go : 
I know that my Redeemer lives — 

That I shall live I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 

Where dwells my Lord and King ; 

O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
O death ! where is thy sting ? 



dictate. A whole week had gone by, As her strength failed, she grew more 



56 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE GARY. 



and more fond of the hymns of her 
childhood, and frequently asked her 
friends to sing such hymns as, Jesus, 
Lover of my soul," " Show pity, Lord, 

Lord, forgive," " A charge to keep 

1 have ; " and she loved to have them 
sung to old tunes. 

Her frequent quotation from Holy 
Scripture, when in intense pain, was, 
" Though He slay me, yet will I trust 
in Him." 

On Tuesday, February 7, she wrote 
her last poem, the last line of which is, 
" The rainbow comes but with the 
cloud." Even after that, she attempted 
in her bed to made a cap for an aged 
woman who greatly loved her, and 
whose sobs in ^the Church of the 
Stranger, when "her death was an- 
nounced, moved the whole audience to 
tears. But her fingers failed, and the 
needle stands in the unfinished cap ; 
for her own crown was ready, and she 
could not stay away from her coronation. 
She fell in a deep sleep, out of which 
she once exclaimed, " I want to go 
away." She passed away as she had 
always desired — waking into the better 
land out of a slumber in this. " For so 
He giveth his beloved sleep." 

The last published words that Phoe- 
be ever wrote of her sister were these : 
" Life was to Alice Cary no holiday, 
and though her skies had gracious 
hours of sunshine, they had also many 
dark and heavy clouds ; and going 
back in memory now, I cannot recall a 
time when, looking upon her face, even 
during the deepest slumber that she 
ever knew, I could not see there the 
sad characters of weariness and pain ; 
until I beheld her at last resting from 
her labors in that sweet, untroubled 
sleep which God giveth his beloved." 

When, February 13, 1870, the tele- 
graphic dispatch swept through the 
land saying, " Alice Cary died yester- 
day. She will be buried to-morrow, 
from the Church of the Stranger," the 
announcement was followed by a si- 
multaneous outburst of sorrow. Almost 
every journal throughout the country 
published a biographical sketch, ac- 
companied with expressions of per- 
sonal loss. In hundreds of these no- 
tices, still preserved, the remarkable 
feature is that no matter how remote 
the journal in which each was pub- 



lished, it is more an expression of in- 
dividual sorrow at the departure of a 
beloved friend, than of mere regret at 
the death of an author. Thus, quot- 
ing at random, we find whole columns 
of her life beginning with sentences 
like these : " With a sense of bereave- 
ment that we cannot express, we record 
the death of our dear friend, Alice 
Cary." 

" The bare mention of the death of 
Alice Cary will be sadly sufficient to 
cause a feeling of sorrow in many a 
household in every part of the coun- 
try." 

"A woman who could stand up for 
her rights without arousing the ani- 
mosities of others, who was a philan- 
thropist without either cant, affecta- 
tion, or bitterness, who wrote many 
true poems, but lived one sweeter and 
truer than she ever wrote ; such was 
our universally beloved Alice Cary. 
May He that giveth his- beloved peace, 
give us, who knew her beautiful life, 
the grace to imitate it." 

" She had created for herself many 
friends whom she never saw, and many 
who had never seen her until they be- 
held her lying in her last sleep in the 
house of prayer. Among these was 
one gentleman well known in scien- 
tific circles, — a man supposed to have 
little of poetic juice in the dry composi- 
tion of his nature. He surprised a 
friend who sat near him, by his exhi- 
bition of feeling while the address was 
delivered ; and at the close, in explana- 
tion of his great emotion, he said : ' I 
have read every line that woman ever 
published. I have never spoken to 
her ; but I tell you she was the larg- 
est-hearted woman that ever lived ! ' 

A letter from New York to the 
"Boston Post," dated February 15, 
1870, contains 
to her funeral : 

" Dear Alice Cary, sweet 
the heart, is gone. New York .was 
shrouded in snow when her gentle face 
was shut away from human sight for- 
ever. In the plain little Church of the 
Stranger, with her true friend, Dr. 
Deems, officiating, and many other 
true friends gathered around in mourn- 
ing silence, with streets all muffled into 
sympathetic stillness by the heavy drift- 
ing snow, and deep, strong sorrow ris- 



the following allusions 



singer of 



ALICE'S FUNERAL SERMON. 



57 



ing from hearts to eves, the sad fu- 
neral rites were performed. Rareh has 
a more touching scene been witnessed 
than that which separated Alice Cary 
from the world that loved her. Many 
of those present were moved to tears, 
though only one was hound to her by- 
kinship. That one was her sister 
Phoebe, her constant companion from 
childhood, and more than her sister — 
her second self — through thirty years 
of literary trial. The little church was 
filled with literary friends who had 
grown warmly attached to both during 
their twenty years' residence in New 
York. All the members of Sorosis 
were present to pay a final tribute to 
her who had been their first President. 
Many prominent journalists and au- 
thors' were also there, forgetful, for the 
time, of all but the solemn sadness 
around them. Near the rosewood cof- 
fin that contained the body of the 
sweet poet, sat Horace Greeley, Bay- 
ard Taylor, Richard B. Kimball, Oliver 
Johnson, P. T. Barnum, Frank B. Car- 
penter, A. J. Johnson, and Dr. W. W. 
Hall, who, for near and special friend- 
ship during her life, were chosen to be 
nearest to her to the grave. When the 
sad rites of the Church were con- 
cluded, the body was borne forth and 
taken to Greenwood Cemetery, the 
snow still falling heavily, and covering 
all things with a pure white shroud. 
It seemed as though nature were in 
sympathy with human sorrow, till the 
grave was closed, for then the snow 
almost ceased, though the sky re- 
mained dark, and the silence con- 
tinued. And thus the mortal part of 
Alice Cary was laid at rest forever." 

Horace Greeley, speaking in private 
of her obsequies, said that such a fu- 
neral never before gathered in New 
York in honor of any woman, or man 
either ; that he never saw before in 
any one assembly of the kind, so many 
distinguished men and women, so many 
known and so many unknown 

One of the 
time, sitting there, shed a silent tear 
for the sister-woman who, alone, unas- 
sisted, in life and death had honored 
human nature ; while a few seats off 
wept aloud the women, poor and old, 
who had lived upon her tender bounty. 

The next morning's issue of the 



greatest scholars of his 



"Tribune" gave the following report 
of the funeral : 

ALICE CARY'S FUNERAL. 

The funeral of Miss Alice Cary took 
place at the Church of the Stranger, 
on Mercer Street, at one o'clock yes- 
terday afternoon ; and, despite the 
severe snow-storm which must have 
prevented many from coming, was at- 
tended by a very large number of the 
friends and admirers of the deceased 
poet. The service opened with an 
organ voluntary from the '' Messiah," 
followed by the anthem, " Vital Spark 
of Heavenly Flame." Dr. Deems, the 
pastor of the Church, read a selection 
from the 15th chapter of St. Paul's 
Epistle to the Corinthians, and then 
said : — 

" I have not thought of a single 
w r ord to say to you to-day, and I do 
not know that it is necessary to say 
one word more than is set down in the 
Church service. Most of us knew and 
loved Alice Cary, and to those who 
did not know her, my words would fail 
in describing the sweetness and gen- 
tleness of her disposition and temper. 
It seems, indeed, that instead of stand- 
ing here, I, too, should be sitting there 
among the mourners." 

The speaker then described the pa- 
tience with which she had borne her 
last sickness, and told how he had 
been by her side when the pain was so 
intense, that the prints of her finger- 
nails would be left in the palm of his 
hand as he was holding hers. But she 
never made a complaint. 

'• She was a parishioner," said he, 
" who came very close to my heart in 
her suffering and sorrow. I saw how 
good and true she was, and the inter- 
est she had in all the work I had in 
hand ; and I feel as if an assistant 
had died out of my family. The peo- 
ple of my congregation who did not 
know her, ought to be glad that I did. 
How many traits of tenderness have 
come before you here, how many ob- 
servations have I been able to make to 
you, because I had been with her ! 
To-day I can only make my lament 
over her as you do, in the simplicity of 
affection. Men loved Alice Cary, and 
women loved her. When a man loves 



58 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PIICEBE CARY. 



a woman, it is of nature : when a 
woman loves a woman, it is of grace — 
of the grace that woman makes by her 
loveliness ; and it is one of the finest 
things that can be said of Alice Cary, 
that she had such troops of friends of 
her own sex. On the public side of 
her life she had honor, on the private 
side, honor and tenderest affection. 

" And now she has gone from our 
mortal sight, but not from the eyes of 
our souls. She is gone from her pain, 
as she desired to die, in sleep, and af- 
ter a deep slumber she has passed 
into the morning of immortality. The 
last time I saw her, I took down her 
works and alighted on this passage, so 
full of consonance with the anthems 
just sung by the choir, and almost like 
a prophecy of the manner in which 
she passed away : — 

" ' My soul is full of whispered song, 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light.' 

" There was one thing in Alice Cary 
of which we Jiad better remind our- 
selves now, because many of us are 
working-people, and people who work 
very much with our brains ; and I see 
a number of young people who are 
come, out of tenderness to her mem- 
ory, to the church to-day, and there 
may be among them literary people 
just commencing their career, and they 
say, f Would I could write so beauti- 
fully and so easily as she did ! ' It 
was not easily done. She did nothing 
easily ; but in all this that we read she 
was an earnest worker ; she was faith- 
ful, painstaking, careful of improving 
herself, up to the last moment of her 
life. Yesterday I looked into the 
drawer, and the last piece of MS. she 
wrote turned up, and I said to Phcebe, 
'That is copied;' and she said, 'No, 
that is Alice's writing.' It was so ex- 
ceedingly plain, it looked like print in 
large type, though she wrote a very 
wretched hand. But her sister told 
me that when she came to be so weak 
that she could n't write much any 
longer, she began to practice like a 
little girl, to learn to form all her let- 
ters anew. She worked to the very 
last, not only with the brains, but the 
fingers. 



" When Phcebe wrote me last Sun- 
day that she was alone, and that Alice 
was gone, I couldn't help telling my 
people, and there was a sob heard that 
went through the congregation. It 
was from an old lady, a friend of hers, 
who often told me about her, and 
spoke of her nobility of soul. Alice 
Cary once thought of making a cap 
for her, and she said, ' I will make a 
cap for Mrs. Brown,' but her fingers 
ached so, and her arm became so 
tired, she had to drop it ; and the 
needle is sticking in that unfinished 
cap now, just as she left it. She 
would have finished it, but they had fin- 
ished her own crown in glory, and she 
could n't stay away from her corona- 
tion. And we will keep that cap with 
care ; and I think Jesus will remind 
her of it, and say, ' Child, inasmuch 
as you did it to one of the least ones, 
you did it unto me.' Should I speak 
for hours, I could only tell you how 
I loved her. She came to me in the 
winter of my fortunes, when I had 
very few friends, and I loved her, and 
will revere her memory forever — for- 
ever. And now I will not shed a tear 
for Alice Cary ; I am glad she is gone. 
I felt at once like saying, ' Thanks be 
to God,' when I heard that the pain 
was over ; and it was so delightful to 
go to stand over her, and see her face 
without a single frown, and to think, 
' She is gone to her Father and my 
Father ; ' and into his hands I commit 
her." 

After the Episcopal Burial Service 
had been read, the choir sang a hymn 
composed by Miss Phcebe Cary, called, 
"What Sweetly Solemn Thoughts." 
Then the friends of Alice Cary were 
requested to look upon her for the last 
time. The body was taken to Green- 
wood Cemetery for interment. The 
pall-bearers were Horace Greeley, 
Bayard Taylor, P. T. Barnum,- Oliver 
Johnson, Dr. W. F. Holcombe, A. J. 
Johnson, F. B. Carpenter, and Richard 
B. Kimball. Among the persons pres- 
ent were Wm. Ross Wallace, the Rev. 
O. B. Frothingham, the Rev. C. F. Lee, 
the Rev. Dr. Cookman, James Parton, 
Fanny Fern, Mrs. Professor Botta, 
Theodore Tilton, Dr. ' Hallock, Mrs. 
Croly, Mrs. Wilbour, John Savage, 
George Ripley, and many others. 



PHCEBE ('.-/AT, II IE WRITER. 



59 



The casket was plain, having merely 

a silver plate, on which was inscribed : 
"Alice Cary. a. i>. 1820; A. D, i. s ri" 

At a special meeting of Sorosis, 
yesterday morning, the following pre- 
amble and resolutions were read and 
adopted : — 

•• In Miss Carv's inaugural address 
to Sorosis, occurs a passage made 
memorable by the late sad event. 
After enlarging upon her own hopes 
and wishes concerning the growth and 
position which women should yet at- 
tain, and the manner in which they 
should yet vindicate themselves against 
all unjust charges, she said : ' Some of 
us cannot hope to see great results. 
for our feet are already on the down- 
hill side of life. The shadows are 
lengthening behind us and gathering 
before us, and ere long they will meet 
and close, and the places that have 
known us shall no us know more. But 
if. when our poor work is done, any of 
those who come after us shall find in 
it some hint of usefulness toward no- 
bler lives, and better and more endur- 
ing work, we for ourselves rest con- 
tent.' 

" Sooner, perhaps, than she then 
thought, the way began to narrow, and 
her feet to falter on the road which 
leads to immortal life : and. 

•• Whereas, This change, so feelingly 
alluded to by Miss Cary, has finally 
overtaken her in the midst of her 
labors ; therefore, 

" Resolved. That in her removal this 
Society not only mourns the loss of its 
first President and most gifted member, 
but sympathizes with all womanhood 
in the loss of an earnest helper and 
most devoted friend. 

•• Resolved, That her exceeding kind- 
ness, her enlarged charity, her abso- 
lute unselfishness, her wonderful pa- 
tience, her cordial recognition of every 
good word and work, endeared her in- 
expressibly to her friends ; while her 
genius commanded the warmest admi- 
ration of all those capable of appre- 
ciating sweetest expression married to 
noblest thought. 

'•Resolved, That her loyalty to wom- 
an, and her unceasing industry, shall 
incite us to renewed earnestness of 
effort, each in our own appointed place, 
to hasten the time when women shall 



receive recognition not only as honest 
and reliable workers, but as a class 
faithful and true to each other. 

" Resolved. That in presenting our 
heartfelt sympathy to the bereaved and 
lonely sister, we add the loving hope, 
that even as the shadows have been 
swept from the bright, upward path- 
way of the departed spirit, they may 
also be dispelled from her sorrowing 
heart, by an abiding faith in that Love 
which ordereth all things well." 

Rev. Henry M. Field, long a kind 
friend to both sisters, in a sketch of 
Alice in the " New York Evangelist," 
thus referred both to Mr. Greeley and 
the funeral of Alice : — 

" No wonder Mr. Greeley felt so 
deeply the death of one who had been 
to him as a sister, that -he followed so 
tenderly at her bier, and in spite of the 
terrible snow-storm that was raging, 
insisted on following her remains to 
Greenwood, determined not to leave 
them till they were laid in their last 
resting-place. She was buried on 
Tuesday, amid one of the most violent 
storms of the winter. It seems sad to 
leave one we love in such desolation. 
But the storms cannot disturb her 
repose. There let her sleep, sweet, 
gentle spirit, child of nature and of 
song. The spring will come, and the 
grass grow green on her grave, and 
the flowers bloom, emblems of the 
resurrection unto life everlasting." 



CHAPTER IX. 

PHCEBE CARY. — THE WRITER. 

No singer was ever more thoroughly 
identified with her own songs than 
Phcebe Cary. With but few excep- 
tions, they distilled the deepest and 
sweetest music of her soul. They 
uttered, besides, the cheerful philoso- 
phy which life had taught her, and the 
sunny faith which lifted her out of the 
dark region of doubt and fear, to rest 
forever in the loving kindness of her 
Heavenly Father. There were few 
things that she ever wrote for which 
she cared more personally than for 
her " Woman's Conclusions." The 
thought and the regret came to her 



6o 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 



sometimes, as they do to most of us, 
that in the utmost sense her life was 
incomplete — unfulfilled. Often and 
long she pondered on this phase of 
existence ; and her " Woman's Con- 
clusions," copied below, were in reality 
her final conclusions concerning that 
problem of human fate which has baf- 
fled so many. 

a woman's conclusions. 

I said, if I might go back again 

To the very hour and place of my 
birth ; 

Might have my life whatever I chose, 
And live it in any part of the earth ; 

Put perfect sunshine into my sky, 
Banish the shadow of sorrow and 
doubt ; 

Have all my happiness multiplied, 
And all my suffering stricken out ; 

If I could have known, in the years 
now gone, 
The best that a woman comes to 
know : 
Could have had whatever will make 
her blest, 
Or whatever she thinks will make 
her so : 

Have found the highest and purest bliss 
That the bridal- wreath and ring in- 
close ; 
And gained the one out of all the world, 
That my heart as well as my reason 
chose ; 

And if this had been, and I stood to- 
night 
By my children, lying asleep in their 
beds, 
And could count in my prayers, for a 
rosary, 
The shining row of their golden 
heads ; 

Yea ! I said, if a miracle such as this 
Could be wrought for me, at my bid- 
ding, still 

I would choose to have my past as it is, 
And to let my future come as it will ! 

I would not make the path I have trod 
More pleasant or even, more straight 
or wide ; 



Nor change my course the breadth of 
a hair, 
This way or that way, to either side. 

My past is mine, and I take it all ; 

Its weakness — its folly, if you please; 
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that, 

May have been my helps, not hin- 
drances! 

If I saved my body from the flames 
Because that once I had burned my 
hand : 
Or kept myself from a greater sin 
By doing a less — you will under- 
stand ; 

It was better I suffered a little pain, 

Better I sinned for a little time, 
If the smarting warned me back from 
death, 
And the sting of sin withheld from 
crime. 

Who knows its strength, by trial, will 
know 
What strength must be set against a 
sin ; 
And how temptation is overcome 
He has learned, who has felt its 
power within ! 

And who knows how a life at the last 
may show ? 
Why, look at the moon from where 
we stand ! 
Opaque, uneven, you say ; yet it shines, 
A luminous sphere, complete and 
grand. 

So let my past stand, just as it stands, 
And let me now, as I may, grow old ; 

I am what I am, and my life for me 
Is the best — or it had not been, I 
hold. 

The guarded castle, the lady in her 
bower, the tumbling sea, the ship- 
wrecked mariner, were as real to Alice 
as to herself when she yielded to the 
luxury of ballad singing. But in Phoe- 
be the imaginative faculty was less pre- 
vailing ; it rose to flood-tide only at 
intervals. The dual nature which she 
inherited from her father and mother 
were not interfused, as in Alice, but 
distinct and keenly defined. Through 
one nature, Phcebe Cary was the most 



PHCEBE '-V PARODIES. 



61 



literal of human beings. Never did 
there live such a dis enchanter. Hold 
up to her, in her literal, every-day 
mood, your most precious dream, and 
in an instant, by a single rapier of a 
sentence, she would thrust it through, 
and strip it of the last vestige of gla- 
mour, and you see nothing before you 
but a cold,' staring fact, ridiculous or 
dismal. It was this tenacious grip on 
reality, this keen sense of the ludicrous 
in the relation between words and 
things, which made her the most spon- 
taneous of punsters, and a very queen 
of parodists. Her parodies are unsur- 
passed. An example of this literal 
faculty by which she could instanta- 
neous'lv transmute a spiritual emotion 
into a material tact, is found in a verse 
from her parody on Longfellow's beau- 
tiful lyric : — 

•• I >ee the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist ; 
A feeling of sadness and longing 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles rain." 

Phoebe preserves all the sadness and 
tenderness of the original, while she 
transfers it without effort from the 
psvchological yearning of the soul, into 
the region of physical necessity, from 
heart-longing to stomach-longing, in 
the travesty : — 

" I see the lights of the baker 

Gleam through the rain and mist, 
And a feeling of something comes 
o'er me. 

That my steps cannot resist : 
A feeling of something like longing, 

And slightly akin to pain. 
That resembles hunger more than 

The mist resembles rain.'' 

" Maud Muller " is one of the most 
sentimental as well as one of the most 
exquisite of modern ballads, yet what 
it prompts in Phoebe is not a tear for 
the faded woman sitting under the 
chimney log, nor a sigh for the judge 
■who wholly deserves his fate, nor even 
an alas ! for the "might have been." 
It prompts in her, as the most natural 
.antithesis in the world, — 



KATE KETCHEM. 

Kate Ketchem on a winter's night 
Went to a party dressed in white. 

Her chignon in a ruet of gold 

Was about as large as they ever sold. 

Gayly she went, because her ' ; pap " 
Was supposed to be a rich old chap. 

But when by chance her glances fell 
On a friend who had lately married 
well, 



Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest 
a namele: 
breast — 



And a nameless longing filled her 



A wish she would n't have had made 

known, 
To have an establishment of her 
own. 

Tom Fudge came slowly through the 

throng, 
With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. 

He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, 
And knowing her slightly, stopped 
and bowed ; 

Then asked her to give him a single 

flower, 
Saying he 'd think it a priceless dower. 

Out from those with which she was 

decked, 
She took the poorest she could select, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking 

down 
To call attention to her gown. 

" Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought 

how dear 
Flowers must be at that time of year. 

Then several charming remarks he 

made, 
Asked if she sang, or danced, or 

played ; 

And being exhausted, inquired 
whether 

She thought it was going to be pleas- 
ant weather. 



62 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



And Kate displayed her "jewelry," 
And dropped her lashes becomingly ; 

And listened, with no attempt to dis- 
guise 
The admiration in her eyes. 

At last, like one who has nothing to 

say, 
He turned around and walked away. 

Kate Ketchem smiled, and said, -' You 

bet 
I '11 catch that Fudge and his money 

yet. 

" He 's rich enough to keep me in 

clothes, 
And I think I could manage him as 

I chose. 

" He could aid my father as well as 

not, 
And buy my brother a splendid yacht. 

" My mother for money should never 

fret, 
And all it crjed for, the baby should 

get. 

" And after that, with what he could 

spare, 
I 'd make a show at a charity fair." 

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed 

the sill, 
And saw Kate Ketchem standing 

still. 

" A girl more suited to my mind 
It is n't an easy thing to find ; 

"And everything that she has to wear 
Proves her rich as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day 
Had the old man's cash my debts to 
pay ! 

" No creditors with a long account, 
No tradesmen wanting ' that little 
amount ; ' 

" But all my scores paid up when due 
By a father-in-law as rich as a Jew ! " 

But he thought of her brother not 
worth a straw 



And her mother, that would be his, in 
law ; 

So, undecided, he walked along, 

And Kate was left alone in the throng. 

But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought 

by stealth, 
To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth ; 

And as for Kate she schemed and 

planned 
Till one of the dancers claimed her 

hand. 

He married her for her father's cash ; 
She married him to cut a dash. 

But as to paying his debts, do you 

know. 
The father could n't see it so ; 

And at hints for help, Kate's hazel 

eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

And when Tom thought of the way 

he had wed, 
He longed for a single life instead, 

And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, 
Regretting the days of his bachelor- 
hood ; 

And said, in a sort of reckless vein, 
" I 'd like to see her catch me again, 

" If I were free, as on that night 
When I saw Kate Ketchem dressed 
in white ! " 

She wedded him to be rich and gay ; 
But husband and children did n't 
pay. 

He was n't the prize she hoped to 
draw, 

And would n't live with his mother-in- 
law. 

And oft when she had to coax and 

pout, 
In order to get him to take her out, 

She thought how very attentive and 

bright 
He seemed at the party that winter's 

night ; 



DRAMAP/C POWER. 



63 



Of his laugb, as soft as a breeze of j 

the south 
(T was now on the other side of his 

mouth) ; 

How he praised her dress and gems 

in his talk. 
As he took a careful account of stock. 

Sometimes she hated the very 

walls — 
Hated her friends, her dinners, and 

calls ; 

Till her weak affection, to hatred 

turned, 
Like a dying tallow-candle burned. 

And for him who sat there, her peace 

to mar. 
Smoking his everlasting cigar — 

He was n*t the man she thought she 

saw, 
And grief was duty, and hate was law. 

So she took up her burden with a 

groan. 
Saying only, •' I might have known ! " 

Alas for Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! 
Though I do not owe them any 
grudge : 

And alas for any who find to their 
shame 

That two can play at their little game ! j 

For of all hard things to .bear and 

grin, 

The hardest is knowing you're taken 
in. 

Ah, well, as a general thing, we fret 
About the one we did n't get; 

But I think we need n't make a fuss. 
If the one we don't want did n't get 

us. 

Her dual nature is strikingly illus- 
trated in many of her poems. Purely 
naturalistic in their conception, as they 
rise they are touched and glorified with 
the supernatural. It does not blend 
with the essence of her song, while 
that of Alice is all suffused with it. 
The form and flavor of the latter's 



verse is often mystical. Her sympa- 
thies are deeply human, her love of 
nature a passion ; yet it is the psychi- 
cal sense which impresses her most 
deeply in all natural and human phe- 
nomena. Phoebe has little of this ex- 
quisite pantheism. It is not the soul 
in nature which she instinctively feels 
first ; it is its association with human 
experiences. The field, the wood, the 
old garden, the swallows under the 
eaves, the cherry-tree on the roof — 
she never wearies of going back to 
them ; all are precious to her for their 
personal remembrances. It is while 
she broods over the past, while the 
tenderest memories of her life come 
thronging back into her heart, that the 
muse of Phoebe Cary rises to its finest 
and sweetest strains. With a less sub- 
tle fancy than Alice, a less suffusive and 
delicate imagination in embodying hu- 
man passion, she has a dramatic force 
often, which her sister seldom mani- 
fests. The lyric rush in Alice comes 
with the winds and waves ; it sings 
of nature's moods, interprets nature's 
voices ; in her utterance of human ex- 
perience it is the tender, the plaintive, 
the pathetic, which prevail. The dra- 
matic instinct in Phoebe kindles in de- 
picting human passion, and rises with 
exultant lyrical ring as if it were so 
strong within her that it would be ut- 
tered. Thus some of her ballads are 
powerful in conception, and wonder- 
fully dramatic in expression. The fin- 
est example of this we have in her 
•• Prairie Lamp," a poem full of tragic 
energy. What a rhythmic swell we 
feel through these lines : — 

' : ' And hark ! there is something strange 
about, 
For my dull old blood is stirred ; 
That was n't the feet of the storm with- 
out, 
Nor the voice of the storm I -heard ! 

" ' 'T is my boy ! he is coming home, he 
is near, 
Or I could not hear him pass : 
For his step is as light as the step of 
the deer 
On the velvet prairie grass.' 

" She rose — she stood erect, serene ; 
She swiftly crossed the floor, 



6 4 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PIKE BE CARY. 



And the hand of the wind, or a hand 
unseen, 
Threw open wide the door. 

" Through the portal rushed the cruel 
blast, 
With a wail on its awful swell ; 
As she cried, ' My boy, you have come 
at last,' 
And prone o'er the threshold fell. 

" And the stranger heard no other 
sound, 

And saw no form appear ; 
But whoever came at midnight found 

Her lamp was burning clear ! " 

" The Lady Jaqueline," one of the 
very finest of her ballads, expresses a 
quality characteristic of herself. It is 
full of personal fire, and yet in utter- 
ance it has the quaintness and sonorous- 
ness of an old ballad master. 

" False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 

I care not for the rest, 
The lover that knelt last night at my 
feet 
Was the bravest and the best : 
Let them perish all, for their power has 
waned, 
And their glory waxed dim ; 
They were well enough when they lived 
and reigned, 
But never was one like him ! 
And never one from the past would I 
bring 
Again, and call him mine ; 
The King is dead, long live the King ! 
Said the Lady Jaqueline." • 

Nothing could be more dramatic than 
this gradation from exultation in the 
new, to a yet tender remembrance of 
the old. 

"And yet it almost makes me weep, 

Aye ! weep, and cry, alas ! 
When I think of one who lies asleep 

Down under the quiet grass. 
For he loved me well, and I loved 
again, 
And low in homage bent, 
And prayed for his long and prosper- 
ous reign, 
In our realm of sweet content. 
But not to the dead may the living 
cling, 



Nor kneel at an empty shrine ; 
The King is dead, long live the King ! 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" Yea, all my lovers and kings that were 

Are dead, and hid away 
In the past, as in a sepulchre, 

Shut up till the judgment day. 
False or fickle, or weak or wed, 

They are all alike to me ; 
And mine eyes no more can be misled, 

They have looked on royalty ! 
Then bring me wine, and garlands 
bring 

For my king of the right divine ; 
The King is dead, long live the King ! 

Said the Lady Jaqueline." 

Equally powerful is she in the ex- 
pression of personal experience. Her 
friend Dr. Deems said that it always 
took his breath away to read her. 

DEAD LOVE. 

We are face to face, and between us 
here 
Is the love we thought could never 
die ; 
Why has it only lived a year ? 

Who has murdered it — you or I ? 

No matter who — the deed was done 
By one or both, and there it lies ; 

The smile from the lip forever gone, 
And darkness over the beautiful eyes. 

Our love is dead, and our hope is 
wrecked ; 
So what does it profit to talk and rave, 
Whether it perished by my neglect, 
Or whether your cruelty dug its 
grave ! 

Why should you say that I am to blame, 
Or why should I charge the sin on 
you ? 
Our work is before us all the same, 
And the guilt of it lies between us 
two. 

We have praised our love for its beauty 
and grace ; 
Now we stand here, and hardly dare 
To turn the face-cloth back from the 
face, 
And see the thing that is hidden 
there. 



LOVE AND SPIRITUAL POEMS. 



65 



Vet look ! ah, that heart has beat its 
last, 
And the beautiful life of our life is 
o'er. 
And when we have buried and left the 
past, 
We two, together, can walk no more. 

You might stretch yourself on the dead 
and weep. 
And pray as the prophet prayed, in 
pain ; 

But not like him could you break the 1 
sleep. 
And bring the soul to the clay again. 

Its head in my bosom I can lay. 
And shower mv woe there, kiss on 
kiss, 
But there never was resurrection-day 
In the world for a love so dead as 
this 

And, since we cannot lessen the sin 

By mourning over the deed we did. 
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to 
the chin, 
Ave. up till the death-blind eyes are 
hid ! 

• American poet has ever shown 
more passion, pathos, and tenderness 
combined, than we find embodied in 
many of the minor love poems of 
Phoebe Cary. Not only the " Dead ! 
Love," but the little poem which fol- 
lows, is an example of these qualities. 

alas ! 

Since, if you stood by my side to-day, 

Only our hands could meet, 
What matter if half the weary world 

Lies out between our feet ? 

That I am here by the lonesome sea, 

You by the pleasant Rhine ? 
Our hearts were just as far apart, 

If I held your hand in mine ! 

Therefore, with never a backward 
glance, 

I leave the past behind : 
And standing here by the sea alone, 

I give it to the wind. 

I give it all to the cruel wind, 
And I have no word to say ; 
5 



Yet, alas ! to be as we have been. 
And to be as we are to-day ! 

The literal quality of Phoebe's mind 
showed itself in her undoubting faith 
in spiritual communion, as it did in 
everything else. She would remark, 

M I think just came into the room ; 

I feel her presence as distinctly as I 
do yours," speaking of one who long 
before had passed into spirit life. She 
u knew that the dead came back," she 
said " just as she knew that she 
thought, or saw, or knew anything 
else." It was simply a fact which she 
stated literally and unexcitedly as she 
would any other. ''It was not any 
more wonderful to her," she said, 
" that she could see and perceive with 
her soul, than that she was able to dis- 
cern objects through her eyeballs." 
Never were any words which she ut- 
tered more literally true to her than 
these : — 

" The veil of flesh that hid 

Is softly drawn aside : 
More clearly I behold tliem now, 

Than those who never died.' 1 ' 1 

Nor must this simple faith of these 
sisters in communion with spirits be 
confounded with any mere modern 
delusion. They inherited this belief 
from their parents. There had been 
no moment in their conscious exist- 
ence, when they did not believe in this 
New Testament faith, that the dead 
are ministering spirits sent forth of 
God, to the heirs of salvation. Never 
did woman live possessed of a more 
sturdy common sense than Phcebe 
Cary. Nevertheless she spoke con- 
stantly of sympathy and communion 
with those whom death had taken, pre- 
cisely as she spoke of intercourse with 
the living. To her, life held no verity 
more blessed than that which finds ex- 
pression in her 

BORDER-LAND. 

I know you are always by my side, 
And I know you love me, Winifred, 
dear : 
For I never called on you since you 
died, 
But you answered tenderly, I am 
here ! 



66 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



So come from the misty shadows, where 
You came last night and the night 
before ; 
Put back the veil of your golden hair, 
And let me look in your face once 
more. 

Ah ! it is you ; with that brow of truth, 
Ever too pure for the least disguise ; 
With the same dear smile on the loving 
mouth, 
And the same sweet light in the ten- 
der eyes. 

You are my own, my darling still ; 

So do not vanish or turn aside ; 
Wait till my eyes have had their fill, 

Wait till my heart is pacified ! 

You have left the light of your higher 
place ; 
And ever thoughtful, and kind, and 
good, 
You come with your old familiar face, 
And not with the look of your angel- 
hood. 

Still the touch of your hand is soft and 
light, 
And your voice is gentle, and kind, 
and low ; 
And the very roses you wear to-night 
You wore in the summers long 
ago. 

O World ! you may tell me I dream or 
rave, 
So long as my darling comes to 
prove 
That the feet of the spirit cross the 
grave. 
And the loving live, and the living 
love ! 

Perhaps the utterances of her soul 
which have most deeply impressed 
others, and by which she will be longest 
remembered, are her religious poems. 
They are among the rarest in the Eng- 
lish tongue, as felicitous in utterance 
as they are devout and helpful in spirit. 
It is the soul of their melody, more 
than the melody itself, which makes us 
glad. It is the faith in the good, vis- 
ible and invisible ; the lark-like hope 
that soars and sings so high with such 
spontaneity of delight ; the love brood- 
ing over the lowliest things, yet yearn- 



ing out toward God's eternities, rest- 
ing in his love at last, which make the 
inspiration of all these hymns. 

Hers was a loving and a believing 
soul. Day by day she walked with 
God. In no hour was He far from her. 
As natural as to breathe was it for her 
to lift her heart to the heart of all-em- 
bracing Love, .whether she sat in her 
chamber alone, or went forth to meet 
Him in the outer world. From her 
hymns we take in the tonic of a healthy, 
hearty, happy soul. Like the simples 
which we draw forth from nature's soil, 
they are full of savor and healing. 
How we feel these in her 

FIELD PREACHING. 

I have been out to-day in field and 

wood, 
Listening to praises sweet, and counsel 

good, 
Such as a little child had understood, 

That, in its tender vouth. 
Discerns the simple eloquence of 

truth. 

The modest blossoms, crowding round 

my way, 
Though they had nothing great or 

grand to say, 
Gave out their fragrance to the wind 

all day ; 
Because his loving breath, 
With soft persistence, won them back 

from death. 

The stately maize, a fair and goodly 
sight, 

With serried spear-points bristling 
sharp and bright, 

Shook out his yellow tresses, for de- 
light, 
To all their tawny length, 

Like Samson, glorifying in his lusty 
strength. 

And every little bird upon the tree, 

Ruffling his plumage bright, for ec- 
stasy, 

Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; 
And seemed, in the same lays, 

Calling his mate, and uttering songs of 
praise. 

The golden grasshopper did chirp and 
sing; 



NEARER HOME." 



67 



The plain bee. busy with her house- 
keeping, 
Kept humming cheerfully upon the 
wing. 
As if she understood 
That, with contentment, labor was a 
od. 

1 saw each creature, in his own best 

place. 
To the Creator lift a smiling face. 
Praising continually his wondrous 

I e : 
As if the best of all 
Life's countless bl was to live 

at all ! 

with a book of sermons, plain and 
true. 
Hid in my heart, where I might turn 

them through, 
I went home softly, through the fall- 
ing dew. 
Still listening, rapt and calm. 
Nature giving out her evening 
psalm. 

While, far along the west, mine eyes 
discerned. , 

Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset 
burned. 

The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame 
were turned : 
And I. in that great hush. 

Talked with his angels in each burn- 
ing bush ! 

The hymn of Phcebe Cary, by which 
she is most widely known is her 



NEARER HOME. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 

I am nearer home to-day 
Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house. 

Where the many mansions be ; 
Nearer the great white throne, 

Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the croa 

Nearer gaining the crown. 



Hut lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink ; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust ; - 
Let my spirit feel in death 

That her feet are firmly set 
On the rock of a living faith ! 

Yet like Alice with her " Pictures of 
Memory," she did not set a high intel- 
lectual value upon it. Until within a 
year or two of her death she was not 
conscious of its universal popularity. 
Before that time this lovely pilgrim of 
a hymn had wandered over the world, 
pausing at many thresholds, filling 
with " sweetly solemn thoughts " how- 
many Christian hearts ! It had been 
printed on Sabbath-school cards, em- 
bodied in books of sacred song, pasted 
into scrap-books, read with tearful 
eyes by patient invalids in twilight 
sick chambers, and by brave yet tender 
souls at their hey-dey, on whose wist- 
ful eyes faint visions of their immortal 
home must sometimes dawn, even 
amid the dimness of this clouded 
world. 

Within the last year of her life, 
Phcebe heard of an incident connected 
with this hymn, which made her hap- 
pier while she lived. 

"A gentleman in China, intrusted 
with packages for a young man from 
his friends in the United States, 
learned that he would probably be 
found in a certain gambling-house. 
He went thither, but not seeing the 
young man, sat down and waited, in 
the hope that he might come in. The 
place was a bedlam of noises, men 
getting angry over their cards, and fre- 
quently coming to blows. Near him 
sat two men — one young, the other 
forty years of age. They were betting 



"" 



68 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



and drinking in a terrible way, the 
older one giving utterance continually 
to the foulest profanity. Two games 
had been finished, the young man los- 
ing each time. The third game, with 
fresh bottles of brandy, had just be- 
gun, and the young man sat lazily 
back in his chair while the oldest shuf- 
fled his cards. The man was a long 
time dealing the cards, and the young 
man, looking carelessly about the room, 
began to hum a tune. He went on, 
till at length he began to sing the 
hymn of Phoebe Cary, above quoted. 
The words," says the writer of the 
story, " repeated in such a vile place, 
at first made me shudder. A Sabbath- 
school hymn in a gambling den ! But 
while the young man. sang, the elder 
stopped dealing the cards, stared at 
the singer a moment, and, throwing 
the cards on the floor, exclaimed. — 

" ' Harry, where did you learn that 
tune ? ' 

" ' What tune ? ' 

" ' Why, that one you 've been sing- 
ing.' 

" The young man said he did not 
know what he had been singing, when 
the elder repeated the words, with 
tears in his eyes, and the young man 
said he had learned them in a Sunday- 
school in America. 

" ' Come,' said the elder, getting up ; 
'come Harry ; here 's what I won from 
you ; go and use it for some good pur- 
pose. As for me, as God sees me, I 
have played my last game, and drank 
my last bottle. I have misled you. 
Harry, and I am sorry. Give me your 
hand, my boy, and say that, for old 
America's sake, if for no other, you 
will quit this infernal business.' " 

The gentleman who tells the story 
(originally published in " The Boston 
Daily News ") saw these two men 
leave the gambling-house together, and 
walk away arm in arm ; and he re- 
marks, "It must be a source of great 
joy to Miss Cary to know that her 
lines, which have comforted so many 
Christian hearts, have been the means 
of awakening in the breast of two 
tempted and erring men on the other 
side of the globe, a resolution to lead 
a better life." 

It was a "great joy" to the writer. 



In a private letter to an aged friend in 
New York, with the story inclosed, she 
added : — 

'• I inclose the hymn and the story 
for you, not because I am vain of the 
notice, but because I thought you 
would feel a peculiar interest in them 
when you know the hymn was written 
eighteen years ago (1852) in your 
house. I composed it in the little 
back third story bedroom, one Sunday 
morning, after coming from church ; 
and it makes me very happy to think 
that any word I could say has done a 
little good in the world." 

After the death of Phcebe, the fol- 
lowing letter was received at the " New 
York Tribune " office. 

SEQUEL TO THE GAMBLERS' STORY. 

To the Editor of the Tribune. 

Sir : Having noticed in the col- 
umns of the "Tribune" a biographi- 
cal sketch of Phcebe Cary, which con- 
tained an incident from my letters from 
China, I think that the sequel to the 
story of the " Gamblers " may interest 
her many friends. 

The old man spoken of in the anec- 
dote has returned to California, and 
has become a hard-working Christian 
man, while " Harry " has renounced 
gambling and all its attendant vices. 
The incident having gone the rounds 
of the press, the old man saw it, and 
finding its " credit," wrote to me about 
it. Thus Phcebe Cary's poem, " One 
Sweetly Solemn Thought," etc., has 
saved from ruin at least two who sel- 
dom or never entered a house of wor- 
ship. I am yours, 

Russell H. Conwell. 
Traveller Office, Boston, Aug. 9, 187 1. 

In her latest hymns, although they 
express all the old love, all the old full- 
ness of faith, we feel through them a 
vibration of grief, like one tone in a 
happy voice quivering with tears. 
Thus she cries in her very last hymn, 
" Resurgam : " — 

" O mine eyes, be not so tearful ; 
Drooping spirit, rise, be cheerful ; 
Heavy soul, why art thou fearful ? 



HYMA'S OF FAITH. 



69 



•• Nature's sepulchre is breaking, 
And the earth, her gloom forsakin 
Inti^ life and light is wakii 

M Oh, the weakness and the madness 
Of a heart that holdeth sadness 
When all else is light and gladiu 

M Though thy treasure death hath taken. 
They that sleep are not forsaken, 
They shall hear the trump, and waken. 

• 
>hall not He who life supplieth 
To the dead seed, where it lieth. 
Quicken also man, who dieth ? 

•• Yea, the power ot death was ended 
When He. who to hell descended, 
se, and up to heaven ascended. 

•• Rise, my soul, then, from dejection. 

See in nature the reflection 

Of the dear Lord's resurrection. 

" Let this promise leave thee never : 
If the might of death I sever, 
] ' £ - shall also live forever .' " 

In "Dreams and Realities, 1 ' a poem 
published in "Harper's Bazar" after 
Phoebe's death, she exclaims : — 

" If still they kept their earthly place, 
The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
Could I have learned that clear calm 

faith 
That looks beyond the bounds of death, 

And almost longs to pass ? " 

Thus, through the heavy cloud of 
human loss and longing the lark-like 
song arose into the very precinct of 
celestial light, sweet with unfaltering 
faith and undying love to the very last. 
The timid soul that fainted in its mor- 
tal house grew reassured and calm, 
rising to the realization of eternal veri- 
ties. The world is better because this 
woman lived, and loved, and believed. 
She wrote, not to blazon her own being 
upon the world, not to drop upon the 
weary multitude the weight of an op- 
pressive personality. She drew from 
the deep wells of an unconscious and 
overflowing love the bright waters of 
refreshment and health. Her subtler 
insight, her finer intuition, her larger 



trust, her more buoyant hope, are the 
world's helpers, all. The simplest 
word o\ such a soul thrills with an in- 
expressible life. It helps to make us 
braver, stronger, more patient, and 
more glad. We fulfill the lowest task 
more perfectly, are more loyal to our 
duty, more loving to each other and to 
God, in the turmoil of the world, in 
the wearing care of the house, in sor- 
row as well as in joy, if by a single 
word we are drawn nearer to the all- 
encircling and everlasting Love. To 
do this, as a writer, was the mission of 
Phcebe Gary. Perhaps no lines which 
she has written express more charac- 
teristically or perfectly her devout and 
childlike faith in a loving Father's or- 
dering of her earthly life, than the 
poem which closes her " Poems of 
Faith, Hope, and Love." 

RECONXILED. 

O years, gone down into the past ; 

What pleasant memories come to 
me, 
Of your untroubled days of peace, 

And hours almost of ecstasy ! 

Yet would I have no moon stand still, 
Where life's most pleasant valleys 
lie ; 
Nor wheel the planet of the day 

Back on his pathway through the 
sky. 

For though, when youthful pleasures 
died, 
My youth itself went with them, 
too : 
To-day, aye ! even this very hour, 
Is the best time I ever knew. 

Not that my Father gives to me 

More blessings than in days gone 
by: 

Dropping in my uplifted hands 
All things for which I blindly cry : 

But that his plans and purposes 

Have grown to me less strange and 
dim ; 

And where I cannot understand, 
I trust the issues unto Him. 

And, spite of many broken dreams, 
This have I truly learned to say, — 



70 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



The prayers I thought unanswered 
once, 
Were answered in God's own best 
way. 

And though some dearly cherished 
hopes 

Perished untimely ere their birth, 
Yet have I been beloved and blessed 

Beyond the measure of my worth. 

And sometimes in my hours of grief, 
For moments I have come to stand 

Where, in the sorrows on me laid 
I felt a loving Father's hand. 

And I have learned the weakest ones 
Are kept securest from life's harms ; 

And that the tender lambs alone 
Are carried in the Shepherd's arms. 

And sitting by the wayside blind, 
He is the nearest to the light, 

Who crieth out most earnestly, 

" Lord, that I might receive my 

sight ! " 

O feet, grown weary as ye walk, 

Where down life's hill my pathway 
lies, 

What care I, while my soul can mount, 
As the young eagle mounts the skies! 

O eyes, with weeping faded out, 
What matters it how dim ye be ? 

My inner vision sweeps, untired, 
The reaches of eternity ! 

O death, most dreaded power of all, 
When the last moment comes, and 
thou 
Darkenest the windows of my soul, 
Through which I look on nature 
now ; 

Yea, when mortality dissolves, 

Shall I not meet thine hour unawed ? 

My house eternal in the heavens 
Is lighted by the smile of God ! 



CHAPTER X. 



PHCEBE CARY. 



THE WOMAN. 



The wittiest woman in America is 
dead. There are others who say many 



brilliant things ; but I doubt if there is 
another so spontaneously and pointedly 
witty, in the sense that Sidney Smith 
was witty, as Phcebe Cary. The draw- 
back to almost everybody's wit and rep- 
artee is that it so often seems pre- 
meditated. It is a fearful chill to a 
laugh to know that it is being watched 
for, and had been prepared beforehand. 
But there was an absolute charm in 
Phoebe's wit ; it was spontaneous, so 
coruscating, so "pat." Then it was 
full of the delight of a perpetual sur- 
prise. She was just as witty at break- 
fast as she was at dinner, and would 
say something just as astonishingly 
bright to one companion, and she a 
woman, as to a roomful of cultivated 
men, doing their best to parry her flash- 
ings cimitars of speech. Though so lib- 
erally endowed with the poetic utterance 
and insight, she first beheld every object 
literally, not a ray of glamour about it; 
she saw its practical and ludicrous re- 
lations first, and from this absolutely 
matter-of-fact perception came the 
sparkling utterance which saw it, 
caught it, played with it, and held it 
up in the same instant. It is pleasant 
to think of a friend who made you 
laugh so many happy times, but who 
never made you weep. 

For instantaneously as her arrow of 
wit came, it sprung from too kind a 
heart ever to be tipped with a sting. 
There was always a prevailing vein of 
good nature in her most satirical or 
caustic remarks. Indeed, satire and 
sarcasm rarely sought vent in her glit- 
tering speech ; it was fun, sheer fun, 
usually, as kindly innocent in spirit as 
it was ludicrous and brilliant in utter- 
ance. But a flash of wit, like a flash of 
lightning, can only be remembered, it 
cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel 
lies in its spontaneity and evanescence ; 
its power is in being struck from 
the present. Divorced from that, the 
keenest representation of it seems cold 
and dead. We read over the few re- 
maining sentences which attempt to 
embody the repartees and bon mots of 
the most famous wits of society, such 
as Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, Madame 
DuDeffand, and Lady .Mary Montagu ; 
we wonder at the poverty of these me- 
morials of their fame. Thus it must 
be with Phcebe Cary. Her most brill- 



PHCEBE CANYS WIT. 



71 



iant sallies were perfectly unpremedi- 
tated, and by herself never repeated, or 
remembered. When she was in her 

best moods, they came like flashes ot 
heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, 
suddenly and constantly you were 
dazzled while you were delighted, and 
afterward found it difficult to single out 
any distinct flash, or separate meteor 
from the multitude. A niece of Phoebe 
says that when a school-girl she often 
thought of writing down in a book the 
marvelous things which she heard her 
Aunt Phoebe say every day. Had she 
carried out her resolution, her book 
would now be the largest volume of 
Phoebe Carv's thoughts. As it is. this 
most wonderful of all her gifts can only 
be represented by a few stray sen- 
tences, gleaned here and there from the 
faithful memories of loving friends ; 
each one invariably adding. " Oh, if I 
had only taken clown the many won- 
derfully bright things that I heard her 
say." She had a necklace made of 
different articles which her friends had 
given her ; from one there was a mar- 
ble, from another a curious nut from 
the East, from another a piece of am- 
ber, from another a ball of malachite or 
crystal, and so on. till the necklace 
consisted of more than fifty beads, and. 
when open, stretched to a length of 
nearly four feet. 

She often wore this necklace on Sun- 
day evenings, and while in conversa- 
tion would frequently occupy her fin- 
gers in toying with the beads. " One 
evening a friend told her that she 
looked, with her necklace, like an In- 
dian princess ; she replied that the 
only difference was that the Indian 
had a string of scalps in place of 
beads. She said that she thought 
that the best place for her friends was 
to hang about her neck, and with this 
belief she had constructed the neck- 
lace, and compelled her friends to join 
it. Some of her friends used to tell 
her that she ought to have a short- 
hand reporter as a familiar spirit, to 
jot down her sharp sayings, and give 
them out to the world. But she re- 
plied that it would not be to her taste 
to be short-handed down to fame ; she 
preferred the lady with the trump, 
though she thought the aforesaid lady 
would be more attractive, and give a 



better name to her favorites, if she 
dressed in the costume of the period." 

A friend tells how, at a little party, 
where fun rose to a great height, one 
quiet person was suddenly attacked by 
a gay lady with the question, " Why 
don't you laugh ? You sit there just 
like a post ! " 

" There ! she called you a post ; why 
don't you rail at her ? " was Phoebe's 
instantaneous exclamation. 

Another tells how, at a dinner-table 
where wine flowed freely, some one 
asked the sisters what wines they 
kept. 

" Oh ! " said Phcebe, " we drink Heid- 
sick ; but we keep mum." 

Mr. P. T. Barnum mentioned to her 
that the skeleton man and the fat 
woman, then on exhibition in the city, 
were married. 

" I suppose they loved through thick 
and thin," answered Phcebe. 

"On one occasion, when Phcebe was 
at the Museum, looking about at the 
curiosities," says Mr. Barnum, " I pre- 
ceded her, and had passed down a 
couple of steps. She, intently watch- 
ing a big anaconda in a case at the 
top of the stairs, walked off (not no- 
ticing them), and fell. I was just in 
time to catch her in my arms, and save 
her from a severe bruising. 

" ' I am more lucky than that first 
woman was, who fell through the in- 
fluence of the serpent,' said Phcebe, as 
she recovered herself." 

Being one day at Wood's Museum, 
she asked Mr. Barnum to show her 
the " Infernal Regions," advertised to 
be represented there. On inquiring, 
he found that they were out of order, 
and said, — 

" The Infernal Regions have van- 
ished ; but never mind, Phcebe, you 
will see them in time." 

" No, in eternity," was the lightning- 
like reply. 

On one occasion a certain well- 
known actor, then recently deceased, 
and more conspicuous for his profes- 
sional skill than for his private virtues, 
was discussed. " We shall never," re- 
marked some one, " see again.' 1 

" No," quickly responded Phcebe ; 
"not unless we go to the pit." 

Says Oliver Johnson in his last trib- 
ute to her, in the " Tribune : " — 



72 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



" Her religious sentiments were deep 
and strong, her faith in the Eternal 
Goodness unwavering. Educated in 
the faith of Universalism, she believed 
to the last in the final salvation of all 
God's children. On this subject she 
spoke to the writer with great distinct- 
ness and emphasis only a few weeks 
before her death ; and once she indi- 
cated her faith by repeating with ap- 
probation the remark of one who said, 
in reply to the argument in favor of 
endless misery, ' Well, if God ever 
sends me into such misery, I know He 
will give me a constitution to bear it.' " 

On entering a shop one day, she 
asked the clerk to show her a lady's 
cap. He understood her to say " a 
baby's cap." 

" What is the child's age?"' he in- 
quired. 

"Forty!" exclaimed Phoebe, in a 
tone which made the young man jump 
with amazement. 

Among her papers there is an envel- 
ope that she has left behind, on which, 
in her own hand, is written one word : 
"Fun!" It is packed with little 
squibs of rhyme and travesty, evi- 
dently written for her own amusement, 
and thrust here out of sight, as un- 
worthy to be seen by any eyes but her 
own. But they are so characteristic, 
and so illustrative of the quality of her 
mind which we are considering, that I 
am tempted to give two of them : not 
that either of the two is as funny as 
those left in the envelope : but because 
it trenches upon less pointedly absurd 
themes. One is, 



MORAL LESSONS. 

BY AMOS KEATER. 

How doth the little busy flea 
Improve each awful jump ; 

And mark her progress as she goes, 
By many an itching lump ! 

How skillfully she does her " sell ; " 
How neat she bites our backs, 

And labors hard to keep her well 
Beyond the reach of whacks ! 

I, too, in games of chance and skill, 
By Satan would be led ; 



For if you 're always sitting still, 
You cannot get ahead. 

To lively back-biting and sich, 
My great ambition tends ; 

Thus would I make me fat and rich 
By living off my friends. 

The other bears no title : — 

Go on, my friend, speak freely, pray ; 
Don't stop till you have said your say ; 
But, after you are tired to death, 
And pause to take a little breath, 
I '11 name a dish I think is one 
To which no justice can be done ! 

It is n't pastry, old and rich, 

Nor onions, garlic, chives, and sich ; 

Not cheese that moves with lively pace, 

It is n't even Sweitzer Kase : 

It is n't ham, that 's old and strong, 

Nor sausage kept a month too long ; 

It is n't beefsteak, fried in lard, 

Nor boiled potatoes when they're hard 

(All food unfit for Goth or Celt) ; 

It is n't fit even when they 're smelt ; 

It ain't what Chinamen call nice, 

Although they dote on rats and mice ; 

For, speaking honestly and truly, 

I would n't give it to a Coolie ! 

I would n't vally even a pup, 

If he could stoop to eat it up ; 

Nor give my enemy a bit, 

Although he sot and cried for it. 

Recall all pizen food and slop 

At stations where the rail-cars stop ; 

It 's more than each and all of these. 

By just about sixteen degrees. 

It has no nutriment, it's trash ! 

It 's meaner than the meanest hash, 

And sourer twenty thousand times, 

Than lemons, vinegar, and limes : 

It 's what I hate the man who eats ; 

It 's poor, cold, cussed, pickled beets ! " 

I pause in these quotations with a 
sense of pain. The written line is 
such a feeble reflection of the living 
words which flashed from the speaking- 
woman, so tiny a ray of that abounding 
light, that bounteous life, from earth 
gone out ! 

The same powerful sense of justice, 
the same delicate honor, the sensitive 
conscience, the tender sympathies, 
which prevailed in the nature of Alice, 
were also dominant in Phoebe. 



LOVE OF APPROBATION. 



73 



She not only wanted every breathing 
thing to haw its little mortal chance, 

but, so far as she felt able to assist, it 
had it. She was especially sympa- 
thetic to the aged and the young, yet 

her heart went out to the helpless, the 
poor, the oppressed everywhere. 

One of her most marked traits was a 
fine sense of honor which pervaded her 
minutest acts. This was manifested in 
her personal relations with others, in 
the utter absence of all curiosity. If 
ever a woman lived who absolutely 
"minded her own business, ami let 
that of other people alone." it was 
Phoebe Cary. If ever mortal lived who 
thoroughly' respected the individual [ 
life and rights of others, it was Phoebe 
Cary. From the prevailing " little- 
nesses " which Margaret Fuller Ossoli 
- are the curse of women, she was 
almost entirely free. 

Her conscience ruled her in the 
words of her mouth, the meditations of 
her heart, and the minutest acts of her 
life. To do anything which she knew 
to be wrong would have been an im- 
possibility to Phcebe Cary. This acute 
and ever accusing-conscience, com- 
bined with a lowly estimate of every 
power of her own, even her power of 
being good, rilled her with a deep and 
pervading humility. She was not only 
modest, she was humble ; not in any 
cringing or ignoble sense, but with an 
abiding consciousness that it was not 
possible for her to attain to her own 
standard of excellence in anything. 
These qualities, together, produced a 
blended timidity of nature and feeling, 
which was manifested even in her re- 
ligious experience. Her apprehension 
of God as the universal and all-loving 
Father was deep and comprehensive. 
Her belief in Christ as an all-sufficient 
Saviour was sure and sufficing. Her 
faith and hope in them soared and 
sang in the sunshine of abiding trust. 
But the moment she thought of her- 
self, she felt all unworthiness. It was 
her last thought, uttered in her last 
words, " O God, have mercy on my 
soul ! " 

As it is to all self-distrusting per- 
sons, personal approbation was dear to 
her. The personal responses which 
many of her poems called forth made 
her genuinely happy, and were to her, 



often, the most precious recompense 
of her labor. Nothing could have 
been more ingenuous or modest than 
the pleasure which she showed at any 
spontaneous response from another 
heart, called out by some poem of her 
own. She did not set a high value on 
herself, but if others valued her, she- 
was glad. If she received the assurance 
that in any way her words had helped 
another human being, she was happier 
still. This happiness probably never 
rose to such fullness from the same 
cause, as when the incident of the two 
wanderers in China, and her hymn, 
u Nearer Home," first met her eyes in 
a newspaper. 

While she frankly said that she was 
happy in believing that she came of 
good lineage, no one on earth was 
more ready to say, — 

" A man's a man, for a' that," 

whatever the shadow might be which 
rested on his birth or ancestry. Of 
sycophancy and snobbery she was in- 
capable. She took the most literal 
measure of every human being whom 
she gauged at all, and the valuation 
was precisely what the individual made 
it, without reference to any antecedent 
whatever. Shams collapsed in the 
presence of this truthful soul, and pre- 
tense withered away under her cool, 
measuring gaze. Mere wealth had no 
patent which could command her re- 
spect, and poverty no sorrow that did 
not possess her sympathy and pity. 
" I have felt so poor myself," she said : 
" I have cried in the street because I 
was poor. I am so much nearer to 
poor people than to rich ones." 

The child of such parents, Phcebe, 
as well as Alice, could scarcely help 
growing up to be the advocate of every 
good word and work. Phoebe's pen, 
as well as her life, was ever dedicated 
to temperance, to human rights, to 
religion, to all true progress. It was 
impossible that such a woman should 
not have been devoted to all the best 
interests of her own sex. She believed 
religiously in the social, mental, and 
civil enfranchisement of woman. She 
hated caste in sex as she hated any 
other caste rooted in injustice, and the 
degradation of human nature. She 
believed it to be the human rijrht of 



74 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PIICEBE CARY. 



every woman to develop the power that 
God has given her, and to fulfill her 
destiny as a human creature, — free as 
man is free. Yet it was in woman as 
woman that she believed. She herself 
was one of the most womanly of women. 
What she longed to see educated to a 
finer and fuller supremacy in woman, 
was feminine, not masculine strength. 
As she believed in man's, she believed 
no less in woman's kingdom. Her 
very clearly defined ideas and feelings 
on this subject can in no way be so 
perfectly expressed as in her own 
words, published in the " New York 
Tribune." 



ADVICE GRATIS TO CERTAIN WOMEN. 

BY A WOMAN. 

Oh, my strong-minded sisters, aspiring 

to vote, 
And to row with your brothers, all in 

the samg boat, 
When you come out to speak to the 

public your mind, 
Leave your tricks, and your airs, and 

your graces behind ! 

For instance, when you by the world 

would be seen 
As reporter, or editor (first-class, I 

mean), 
I think — just to come to the point in 

one line — 
What you write will be finer, if 't is not 

too fine. 

Pray, don't let the thread of your sub- 
ject be strung 

With "golden," and "shimmer," 
" sweet," " filter," and " flung ; " 

Nor compel, by your style, all your 
readers to guess 

You 've been looking up words Webster 
marks obs. 

And another thing : whatever else you 

may say, 
Do keep personalities out of the way ; 
Don't try every sentence to make 

people see 
What a dear, charming creature the 

writer must be ! 



Leave out affectations and pretty ap- 
peals ; 

Don't " drag yourself in by the neck 
and the heels," 

Your dear little boots, and your gloves ; 
and take heed, 

Nor pull your curls over men's eyes 
while they read. 

Don't mistake me ; I mean that the 

public's not home, 
You must do as the Romans do, when 

you 're in Rome ; 
I would have you be womanly, while 

you are wise ; 
'T is the weak and the womanish tricks 

I despise. 

On the other hand : don't write and 

dress in such styles 
As astonish the natives, and frighten 

the isles ; 
Do look, on the platform, so folks in 

the show 
Need n't ask, " Which are lions, and 

which tigers ? " you know ! 

" 'T is a good thing to write, and to 

rule in the state, 
But to be a true, womanly woman is 

great : 
And if ever you come to be that, 't will 

be when 
You can cease to be babies, nor try to 

be men ! 

After months of solicitation from 
those connected with it, and at the 
earnest entreaty of Alice, she became 
at one time the assistant editor of the 
" Revolution." But the responsibility 
was always distasteful to her, and after 
a few months' trial, she relinquished 
it with a sense of utter relief. 

She, like Alice, was unfitted by nat- 
ural temperament and disposition for 
all personal publicity. But in private 
intercourse, at home or abroad, her 
convictions on all subjects were ear- 
nestly and fearlessly expressed. 

Although so uncompromising in her 
convictions, Phoebe very rarely aroused 
antagonism in her expression of them. 
If she uttered them at all, it was in a 
form which commanded merriment, if 
not belief. The truth which many an- 
other might unfold in an hour's decla- 



" WAS HE HENPECKED ? 



75 



mation, she would sheathe in witty 
rhyme, in whose lines it would run 
and sparkle as it never could have done 
in bald prose. 

In the following lines we find her 
usual manner o\ expressing a truth, 
which so many others otter in a form 
harsh and repelling. Phoebe, who had 
just written these lines, brought them 
in. and read them one day to Alice, 
who was too ill to sit up. The turn of 
her words, and the tones of her voice, 
combined, were irresistible, and in a 
moment the beating rain outside, and 
the weary pain within were forgotten 
in merriment. Thus the truth of the 
rhyme, which from many another nat- 
ure would have shot forth in garrulous 
fault-finding or expostulation, in the 
dress wherewith Phoebe decked it, 
amused far more than it exasperated, 
although the keenness of its edge was 
in no wise dulled or obscured. 

WAS HE HENPECKED ? 

" I '11 tell you what it is, my dear," 
Said Mrs. Dorking, proudly, 

" I do not like that chanticleer 
Who crows o'er us so loudly. 

" And since I must his laws obey, 
And have him walk before me, 

I ! d rather like to have my say 
Of who should lord it o'er me." 

" You*d like to vote?" he answered 
slow, 
•• Why, treasure of my treasures, 
What can you, or what should you 
know 
Of public men, or measures ? 

" Of course, you have ability, 

Of nothing am I surer ; 
You 're quite as wise, perhaps, as I ; 

You 're better, too, and purer. 

" I 'd have you just for mine alone ; 

Nay, so do I adore you, 
I 'd put you queen upon a throne, 

Ana bow myself before you." 

"You\1 put me! you? now that is 
what 

I do not want, precisely : 
I want myself to choose the spot 

That I can fill most wisely." 



u My dear, you 're talking like a goose — 
I nhenfyy and improper " — 

Hut here again her words broke loose. 
In vain he tried to stop her : 

" I tell you, though she never spoke 
So you could understand her, 

A goose knows when she wears a 
yoke, 
As quickly as a gander." 

" Why, bless my soul ! what would 
you do ? 
Write out a diagnosis ? 
Speak equal rights ? join with their 
crew 
And dine with the Sorosis ? 

" And shall I live to see it, then — 

My wife a public teacher ? 
And would you be a crowing hen — 

That dreadful unsexed creature ? " 

" Why, as to that, I do not know ; 

Nor see why you should fear it ; 
If I can crow, why let me crow, 

If I can't, then you won't hear it ! " 

" Now, why," he said, " can't such as 
you 

Accept what we assign them ? 
You have your rights, 'tis very true, 

But then, we should define them ! 

" We would not peck you cruelly. 

We would not buy and sell you ; 
And you, in turn, should think, and 
be, 

And do, just what we tell you ! 

" I do not want you made, my dear, 
The subject of rude men's jest ; 

I like you in your proper sphere, 
The circle of a hen's nest ! 

" I 'd keep you in the chicken-yard, 
Safe, honored, and respected ; 

From all that makes us rough and 
hard, 
Your sex should be protected." 

" Pray, did it ever make you sick ? 

Have I gone to the dickens ? 
Because you let me scratch and pick 

Both for myself and chickens ? " 

" Oh, that 's a different thing, you know, 
Such duties are parental; 



7 6 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHGEBE CARY. 



But for some work to do, you 'd grow 
Quite weak and sentimental." 

"Ah ! yes, it 's well for you to talk 

About a parent's duty ! 
Who keeps your chickens from the 
hawk ? 

Who stays in nights, my beauty ? " 

" But, madam, you may go each hour, 
Lord bless your pretty faces ! 

We '11 give you anything, but power 
And honor, trust and places. 

;; We 'd keep it hidden from your sight 
How public scenes are carried ; 

Why, men are coarse, and swear, and 
fight" — 
" I know it, dear ; I 'm married ! " 

" Why, now you gabble like a fool ; 

But what 's the use of talking ? 
'T is yours to serve, and mine to rule, 

I tell you, Mrs. Dorking ! " 

" Oh, yes," she said, " you 've all the 
sense ; 

Your sex are very knowing ; 
Yet some of you are on the fence, 

And only good at crowing." 

" Ah ! preciousest of precious souls, 
Your words with sorrow fill me ; 

To see you voting at the polls 
I really think would kill me. 

" To mourn my home's lost sanctity ; 

To feel you did not love me ; 
And worse, to see you fly so high, 

And have you roost above me ! " 

" Now, what you fear in equal rights 
I think you 've told precisely ; 

That 's just about the ' place it lights] " 
Said Mrs. Dorking wisely. 

Phoebe was very fond of children. 
Like Alice, she always had her special 
pets and darlings among the children 
of her friends. She was interested in 
all childhood, but, unlike Alice, she 
preferred little boys to little girls. All 
her child lyrics are exceptionally happy, 
going straight to the understanding and 
hearts of little folk. She addresses 
them ever as dear little friends, jolly 
little comrades, never in a mother-tone ; 
while in Alice, we feel constantly the 



yearning of the mother-heart. Her ut- 
terances to children thrill through and 
through with mother-love, its tender- 
ness, its exultation. It is often difficult 
to realize that she is not the mother of 
the child to whom she speaks and of 
whose loveliness she sings. 

Phoebe had a childlike love of decora- 
tion. Not that she was ever satisfied 
with her looks. She had the same dis- 
trust of her personal appearance that 
she had of her personal powers. Nev- 
ertheless she had a passionate love of 
ornaments. 

Alice delighted in ample robes, rich 
fabrics, India shawls, and wore very 
few jewels. But Phcebe would wear 
two bracelets on one arm, from the 
sheer delight of looking on them. The 
Oriental warmth of her temperament 
was revealed in her delight in gleaming 
gems. She loved them for their own 
sakes. There were ardors of her heart 
which seemed to find their counterpart 
in the imprisoned, yet inextinguishable 
fires of precious stones. She would 
watch and muse over them, moment 
after moment, as if in a dream. Her 
senses, pure and strong, were the ave- 
nues of keen and swift delights. If 
her conscience was stern, her heart was 
warm, and her capacity for joy immeas- 
urable. The flashing of a jewel, the 
odor of a flower, the face of youth, the 
subtle effluence of outraying beauty, the 
touch of a hand, the moulding of a per- 
fect arm, everything which revealed, in 
sight or sound or form, the more subtle 
and secret significance of matter, moved 
a nature powerful in its passionate sen- 
sibility. 

To her dying hour she was a child 
in many ways. The Phcebe Cary who 
faced the world was dignified, self-con- 
tained, and self-controlled. But the 
child-heart avenged itself for what the 
world had cost it, when it came back to 
its own sole self. The last great "strug- 
gle, in which alone it essayed to meet 
and conquer sorrow, snapped the cord 
of life. Thus in the slightest things, 
often, Phcebe could not bear disappoint- 
ment any better than a child. No mat- 
ter how bravely she tried, afterwards, 
in greater or less degree, she always 
went through the reaction of complete 
prostration. Often a disappointment 
like missing a train of cars, having a 



PHCEBE'S LOVERS. 



77 



journey put off, or even a pleasant even- 
ing out deferred, would send her to her 
room in floods of tears. To be sure, 

she made HO ado. The door was shut, 
and nobody was allowed to hear the 
Wailing, nor were any comments made 
on it afterwards. Nevertheless, when 

she appeared again, two or three, at 

least, always knew that " Phoebe had 

had her cry. and felt better." 

Modest and reticent in herself, yet 
merrv and witty in her conversation 
with men. her habitual manner to the 
women whom she loved was most en- 
ring. Without the shallow " gush," 
and insipid surface effervescence of 
sentimental adjectives, which in many 
women take the place, and attempt to 
hide the lack, of any deep affection, 
Phoebe was full of loving little ways, 
dear to remember. She had a fashion 
of smoothing back your hair from your 
forehead, as if you were a child : and 
of coming and standing beside you, 
with her hand laid upon your shoulder 
in a caressing touch. This action of 
hers was especially comforting and 
assuring. It was not a startling, ner- 
vous hand resting on your shoulder. 
It was deep, dimpled, and abiding. It 
rested, soothed, and helped you at 
once. It came with a caress, and left 
you with a laugh. For by that time 
its owner had surely said something 
which had changed the entire current 
of your thoughts and feeling, if you had 
been woe-begone and lonesome when 
she came. 

Emerson says, "All mankind love a 
lover ; " and Phoebe Cary surely did. 
But rarely in any solemn, heart-tearing 
way. 

" Believe me,'' she said once, " I 
never loved any man well enough to 
lie awake half an hour, to be misera- 
ble about him." 

" I do believe you," said Alice. " It 
would be hard to believe it, were you 
to say you ever had." 

Till within a few years of her death, 
it was only a distant adorer that Phoebe 
desired, a cavalier scrvente. who would 
escort her to public places occasionally, 
pay her chivalric homage on Sabbath 
evenings, and through the week retire 
to his affairs, leaving her " unboth- 
ered " to attend to hers. Her ideal of 
marriage was most exacted ; and she 



would deliberately have chosen to 
have lived "solitary to her dying day.' 
rather than to have entered that sa- 
cred state, without the assurance that 
its highest and purest happiness would 
have been hers. 

" 1 prefer my own life to that of the 
mass of married people that I see," 
she would say ; " it is a dreary mate- 
rial life that they seem to me to live. 
no inspiration of the deepest love in it. 
And yet I believe that true marriage 
holds the highest and purest posssibil- 
ities of human happiness." It was a 
perfectly characteristic reply that she 
made to the person who asked her if 
she had ever been disappointed in her 
affections : — 

" Xo ; but a great many of my mar- 
ried friends have." 

Equally characteristic was her an- 
swer to the erratic officer of our late 
war, who invited her to drive with him, 
and improved the opportunity it gave 
to ask her to marry him. She re- 
quested a short time to consider. 

" No,", said the peremptory hero. 
" Now, or never." 

ki Never ! " was the response. 

We may believe that the " never " 
did not lose in vim from the fact, 
known to her, that the same daring- 
adorer had offered his name and fame 
no less ardently, but a few days be- 
fore, to her sister Alice. 

They parted at the Twentieth Street 
door forever. He died not long after, 
of wounds received in battle. 

Phoebe was as innocently fond of 
admiration as she was of decoration. 
She was never vain of it, but always 
delighted when she received it. She 
received much. When it culminated 
in an offer of marriage, as it repeatedly 
did, Phoebe invariably said, " No, I 
thank you : I like you heartily ; but I 
don't want to marry anybody." The 
result was, her lover remained her 
friend. If he married, his wife be- 
came her friend ; and the two women 
exchanged visits on the most cordial 
terms. There was not an atom of 
sentimentality, in the form that young 
Sparkler calls " nonsense," in the 
character of Phcebe Cary. 

During the last ten years of her life, 
the woman's heart asserted itself in 
behalf of the woman's life. In 1867, 



7S 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



an offer of marriage was made her by 
a gentleman eminent in the world of 
letters, a man of the most refined nat- 
ure, extensive culture, and real piety. 
She felt a deep and true affection for 
him, as he did for hen The vision of 
a new life and home shone brightly in 
upon the shadow which disease and 
death had hung over her own. 

Although unconsciously, Alice had 
already entered the Valley of Death, 
and when, with her failing strength, 
the loss of Phoebe suddenly confronted 
her, she shrank back appalled. " I 
suppose I shall be sustained, if worst 
comes to worst / " she wrote ; " but I 
am very sad now." Phoebe looked 
into the face of her lover, and every 
impulse of her heart said, "Yes ; " she 
looked into the face of her sister, and 
her lips said without faltering, " No." 
Making the sacrifice, she made it 
cheerfully, and without ado. I doubt 
if Alice, to her dying day, realized 
how much Phoebe relinquished in her 
own heart, when she sacrificed the 
prospect of tlijs new life for her sake. 

Referring to it once, Phoebe said, 
" When I saw how Alice felt, I could 
not leave her. If I had married, I 
should have gone to my own home ; 
now she could never live anywhere 
but in her own house. I could not 
leave her alone. She has given so 
much to me, I said, I will give the 
rest of my life to her. It is right. I 
would not have it otherwise. Yet 
when I think of it, I am sure I have 
never lived out my full nature, have 
never lived a complete life. My life is 
an appendage to that of Alice. It is 
my nature and fate to walk second to 
her. I have less of everything that is 
worth having, than she ; less power, 
less money, fewer friends. 

" Sometimes I feel a yearning to 
have a life my very own ; my own 
house, and work, and friends ; and to 
feel myself the centre of all. I feel 
now that it is never to be. Oh, if you 
knew how I carry her on my heart ! 
If she goes down town, I am anxious 
till she comes back. I am so afraid 
some harm will happen to her. Think 
of it ! for more than thirty years our 
house has never been free from the 
sound of that cough. One by one, all 
have had it, and gone, but we two. 



Now, when I am alone, I have that 
constant dread on me about Alice. 
Of course I could not leave her. Yet 
(with a pathetic smile) I am sure we 
would have been very happy. Don't 
you think so ? " Taking a picture 
from the inner drawer of her desk, 
she gazed on it long. " Yes, I am 
sure of it," she said, as she slowly put 
it back. 

Through the teachings of her par- 
ents, and the promptings of her own 
soul, Phoebe Cary believed in the final 
restoration, from sin to happiness, of 
the entire human race, through the 
love of the Father and the atonement 
of Jesus Christ. Her faith in God, 
her love for humanity, never wavered. 
No less, through her very tempera- 
ment, her dependent soul needed all 
the support of outward form, as well 
as of inward grace. Alice could wor- 
ship and be happy in the solitude of 
her own room ; but Phoebe wanted ail 
the accessions of the Church service. 
She was deeply devotional. In her un- 
ostentatious devoutness, there was a 
touch of the old Covenanter's spirit. 
In her utter dependence on the mercy 
and love of God, there was an absolute 
humility of heart, touching to see. 

Although she believed in the final 
restoration of the human race to holi- 
ness, she believed no less in extreme 
penalties for sin. She expected pun- 
ishment for every evil deed she did, 
not only here but hereafter. This be- 
lief, with her own natural timidity and 
humility, explains every cry that she 
ever uttered for divine mercy, even to 
the last. 

How much more to her was the 
Spirit of the Divine Master than the 
tenets of any creed, we may know from 
the fact that for many years of her life 
in New York, she was a member of 
the Church of the Pilgrims (Congrega- 
tional), its pastor, Dr. Cheever, her 
dear friend : while at the time of her 
death she was a regular attendant at 
an independent church (the Church of 
the Stranger), and with, its pastor, Rev. 
Dr. Deems, was the associate editor 
of " Hymns for all Christians." Faith, 
hope, and love — love .for God, love 
for her fellow-creatures — were the 
prevailing elements of her religious 
faith and experience. In the belief 



PHCEBKS CAKE OF ALICE. 



79 



and practice of these she lived and 
died, a brilliant, devout, humble, lov- 
ing, and lovable woman. 



phceui: s 



CHAPTER XI. 

: SUMMER. 
AND BURIAL. 



DEATH 



There is something inexpressibly 

sail in the very thought of Pluebe's 
last summer. One must marvel at the 
providence of God, which demanded 
of a soul so dependent upon the min- 
istries of love, so clinging in every 
fibre of its being, that it should go 
down into the awful shadow, and con- 
front death alone. Though hard, it 
would have been easier for Alice to 
have met such a fate. Yet it was not 
Alice, it was Phcebe, who died alone. 
She not only was alone, but sadder 
still, she knew it. In the very last 
days she said, " I am dying alone." 

The general impression is that with 
a constitution exceptional in her family, 
in robust health, she was suddenly 
smitten, and, without warning, died. 
This is far from the truth. Even in 
the summer of 1869, she complained of 
symptoms which proved to be the fore- 
runners of fatal disease. More than 
once she exclaimed, " Oh this heavi- 
ness, this lethargy which comes over 
me. as if I could never move again ! I 
wonder what it is ! ; ' But Alice was so 
conrlrmedly, and every day becoming 
so hopelessly the invalid of the house- 
hold, Phoebe's ailments were ignored 
by herself, and scarcely known to her 
friends. In the presence of the mortal 
agony which had settled on her sister's 
frame, Phcebe had neither heart nor 
desire to speak of the low, dull pain 
already creeping about her own heart. 
Her first anxiety was to spare her 
sister every external cause for solici- 
tude or care. 

Nevertheless, there were times when 
her own mortality was too strong for 
her, and in the December before the 
death of Alice, she lay for many clays 
in the little room adjoining, sick al- 
most unto death, with one form of 
the disease of which, at last, she died. 
While convalescing from this attack, I 



found her one day lying on a sofa in 
Alice's room, while Alice, in an arm- 
chair, was sitting by her side. It was 
one of Alice's "best days." Not two 
months before her death, after days 
and nights of anguish which no lan- 
guage can portray, she yet had life 
enough left to be seated in that arm- 
chair, dressed in white, wrapped in a 
snowy lamb's-wool shawl, with a dainty 
cap, brave with pink ribbons, on her 
head. Moving against the back of the 
chair, she at last pushed this jaunty 
cap on one side, when Phoebe looked 
up from her pillow, and said with a 
sudden laugh, "Alice, you have no 
idea what a rakish appearance you pre- 
sent. I '11 get you the hand-glass that 
you may see how you wear your cap." 
And this remark was the first of a 
series of happy sallies which passed 
between these two, stricken and smit- 
ten, yet tossing to and fro sunny words, 
as if neither had a sorrow, and as if all 
life stretched fair and bright before 
them. 

Phoebe probably never knew, in this 
world, to what awful tension her body 
and soul were strained, in living through 
the suffering of Alice, and beholding 
her die. 

She herself said : " It seems to me 
that" a cord stretches from Alice's heart 
to mine ; nothing can hurt her that does 
not hurt me." That that cord was 
severed at death, no one can believe. 
Beyond the grave Alice drew her still, 
till she drew her into the skies. 

After her sister's death she re- 
marked to a friend, '" Alice, when she 
was here, always absorbed me, and she 
absorbs me still ; I feel her constantly 
drawing me." 

You have read how, after seeing the 
body of her sister laid beneath the 
snow in Greenwood, Phoebe came back 
to the empty home, let the sunshine in, 
filled the desolate room with flowers, 
and laid down to sleep on the couch 
near that of Alice, which she had oc- 
cupied through all her last sickness ; 
how she rose with the purpose and 
will to work, to prepare a new edition 
of all her sister's writings, — not to 
sit down in objectless grief, but to do 
all that her sister would, and she 
believed, did still desire her to do. 
There was not a touch of morbidness 



8o 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE GARY. 



in her nature. By birthright hers was 
an open, honest, sunshiny soul. The 
very effluence of her music sprang from 
the inspiration of truth, faith, and love. 
In herself she had everything left to 
live for. Mentally, she had not yet 
risen to the fullness of her powers. 
She was still in the prime of a rich, 
attractive womanhood ; her black hair 
untouched of gray, her hazel eyes 
sparkling as ever, her cheeks as dim- 
pled as a baby's, her smile, even with 
its droop of sadness, more winsome 
than of old. To her own little store 
were now added her sister's posses- 
sions. Save a few legacies and me- 
mentos, everything of which she died 
possessed, Alice had bestowed upon 
Phoebe. The house was hers ; she its 
sole mistress, possessed of a life com- 
petency. All Alice's friends were hers 
now in a double sense ; for they loved 
her for herself, and her sister also. 
She sat enshrined in a tenderer and 
deeper sympathy than had ever envel- 
oped her before ; her fame was grow- 
ing, offering her every promise of a 
more brilliant and enduring repute in 
the world of'letters ; her position as 
the leader of a most brilliant and in- 
tellectual society was never so assured. 
Dear soul ! life had come to her, why 
should she not be sunshiny and brave ? 
Nobody had left her, not even her 
dead ; were not Alice and Elmina, and 
all her lost ones, going in and out with 
her, supporting her, cheering her ? 
why should she be bowed down and 
sorrowful ? No less that realistic nat- 
ure, that tenacious heart, cried out for 
the old, tangible fellowship, for the face 
to face communion, the touch of the 
hand, the tender, brooding smile, even 
for the old moan of pain telling of the 
human presence. Alice was there — 
yes, she believed it ; yet it was with 
spiritual insight, not with the old mor- 
tal vision, that she beheld her. She 
was all womanly, made for deep house- 
hold loves. With all her sweet be- 
liefs, she was alone. 

"Alice left me this morning, and I 
am in the world alone," was the mes- 
sage she sent me, hundreds Of miles 
away, the day that Alice died. 

Everything was hers, but what did 
it avail now ? There was no Alice 
waiting on her couch, no Alice at the 



table, no Alice to pour out long, sweet 
songs in her ear; the soul of her soul 
had passed from her. She tried to see 
the light, but the light of her life had 
gone out. 

Phoebe's resolution was to go on with 
her own life-work, not as if her sister 
had not died, but as if in passing away 
she had left a double work for her to 
perform. She felt that she had not only 
her own, but Alice's works to revise 
and edit, Alice's name to honor and 
perpetuate. For the first time in her 
life, the impulse, the energy to do, was 
to come from herself alone. It could 
not be. Unconsciously she drooped. 
There was no Alice to whom to read 
what she had written. No Alice to 
live through and for, as she lived 
through her and for her for so many 
years. The tension of those years of 
watching and of ceaseless anxiety bro- 
ken, the reaction of unutterable weari- 
ness and helplessness told how fearful 
had been their strain. She did not 
quiescently yield to it. She went out 
and sought her friends. She called her 
friends in to her. She did all in her 
power to shake off the lethargy steal- 
ing upon her ; not only to believe, but 
to feel, that she had much left to live 
for. In vain. She who had so loved 
to live, who by her physical as well as 
mental constitution could take delight 
in simple existence ; she who was in 
sympathy with every hope and fear 
which animates humanity, came to her- 
self at last, to find that her real inter- 
est had all been transferred to the be- 
loved objects- who had passed within 
the veil of the unseen and eternal. 

Possessing, as she believed she did, 
"the old Cary constitution," with a 
vital hold on life which no other of her 
sisters had possessed, she made her 
plans in expectation of long life. And 
yet, when attacked with what seemed 
to be slight illness, when her physi- 
cian spoke hopefully to her of recov- 
ery, she replied, " that she knew of -no 
reason why she should not recover, 
except that she neither found, nor 
could excite, any desire in herself to do 
so ; and this she said with a sort of 
wonder." Sickness, grief, it was not in 
her power to bear. They struck at 
once to the very core of life. She grew 
gray in a few weeks. She began to 



PHCEBE CARY 'S DEA /'//. 



81 



look Strangely like Alice. Her own 
sparkling expression was gone ; and in 
the stead, her whole face took on the 
pathetic, appealing look of her sister. 
This resemblance increased till she 
died. "She grew just like Miss Al- 
ice." said Maria, her nurse, alter her 
death. " She grew just like her in 
looks, and in all her ways. Sometimes 
lined as if she was Miss Alice." 

The week before she was taken sick. 
returning to New York, I called upon 
her at once. She was well, and out 
attending the meeting of a convention. 
I left a message that, as it would be 
impossible for me to come again lor 
some time, I should await her promised 
visit in my own home. Weeks passed, 
in which a task I was bound in honor 
to perform by a certain time, withheld 
me from everything else, even from 
the reading of newspapers. Yet in 
the midst of it the thought of Phoebe 
a came to me. and I felt almost 
hurt at her non-appearance. Long af- 
ter its date, a miscarried letter, written 
bv the hand of another, came to me, 
telling: of her sickness. When it 
reached me, she had already gone to 
Newport. I answered it, telling her 
that had I known of her state. I should 
have left everything and come to her, 
as I was still ready to do. Carrying 
the letter down to post without delay, 
I took up the " Tribune," and the first 
line on which my eye rested was, 
u The death of Phoebe Cary."' 

A short time before, Mrs. Clymer, 
the niece who had all her life-time been 
as a daughter to Alice and Phoebe, 
stood over the death-bed of her only 
brother. She closed his eyes for the 
last time, to lie down on her own bed 
of suffering, to which she was bound 
for weeks. Lying there, she learned 
of the sickness of her aunt Phoebe, 
but nothing of its degree : the latter 
withholding it from her. As soon as 
she was able to sit up, she left Cincin- 
nati for Newport. Reaching New 
York, and stopping at the house on 
Twentieth Street for tidings, she was 
met with the telegram of her aunt's 
death. 

Such were the inexorable circum- 
stances which withheld two who loved 
her, from her in her last hours ; a fact, 
the very memory of which, to them, 
6 



must be an unavailing and life-long 
sorrow. Thus it was with nearly all 
of her friends ; they were out of the 
city, far from her. and scarcely knew of 
her sickness until they read the an- 
nouncement of her death. 

She felt it keenly ; and in her last 
loneliness her loving heart would call 
out, " Where are all my friend- 
Yet at no time was she wholly bereft 
of the ministrations of affection. Hon. 
Thomas Jenckes. of Providence, Rhode 
Island, and Mr. Francis Nye. of New 
York, the friend and executor of both 
Alice and herself, made every arrange- 
ment for her conveyance to Newport. 
She was accompanied thither by a de- 
voted lady friend, and followed thither 
by another, who remained with her till 
after her death. Mr. Oliver Johnson 
made the journey to Newport expressly 
to see his old friend in her lonely and 
suffering state. The lady who was 
with her to the last, Mrs. Mary Stevens 
Robinson, daughter of Rev. Dr. Abel 
Stevens of the Methodist Episcopal 
Church, who, beside her nurse Maria, 
is the only person living who can tell 
truly of Phoebe Cary's last hours, has, 
at the request of the writer, kindly sent 
the following graphic personal recollec- 
tions of Phoebe, and a record of those 
sad days at Newport. She says : — 

" I first met with Phoebe Cary in the 
winter of 1853-54. She was still young 
and striking in her appearance, with 
keen, merry, black eyes, full of intelli- 
gence and spirit, a full, well-propor- 
tioned figure, and very characteristic 
in gesture, aspect, and dress. She was 
fond of high colors, red, orange, etc., 
and talked well and rapidly. She was 
entirely feminine in demeanor, careful, 
in the main, of the sensibilities of those 
whom she addressed, though so warm 
by nature, and so quick in her thought, 
as to be sometimes thrown off guard 
on this point, in the ardor of discussion. 
My father was at this period editor of 
a magazine, and Alice was one of his 
contributors. As we lived in the same 
neighborhood, we exchanged frequent 
visits with the sisters ; we attending 
their evening receptions, and they our 
unceremonious social gatherings. At 
these companies Phoebe's conversation 
was more with gentlemen than with 
ladies ; partly because she liked. them 



82 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AXD PIICEBE CARY. 



better, and partly because they were 
sure to be entertained by her ; but she 
maintained invariably a gentle reserve, 
was never 'carried away' in the ardor 
or brilliancy of talking. Her wit had 
no sting, her frankness and sincerity 
were those of a child, and she was 
always ' pure womanly.' In remarks 
upon persons and their performances, 
she was free and discriminating. Here- 
in it was perhaps less habitual for her 
to use restraint, than it was with Alice. 
The latter was carefully, conscientious- 
ly just and generous. She was content 
only to give full credit for whatever 
was commendable in others, or in what 
they accomplished. 

" Our removal from town, and other 
interferences, interrupted this acquaint- 
ance, until, one spring day some five 
or six years ago, I chanced to meet 
Phoebe in a store, on the quest of shop- 
ping, like myself. We exchanged warm 
greetings, talked perhaps for five min- 
utes ; but instead of the usual formulas, 
her words were so fresh and piquant 
that I recall them even now. I men- 
tioned the fa,ct of my father's being 
pastor of a Methodist church at Mama- 
roneck. ' I don't belong among the 
Methodists,' said Phoebe, in her reply, 
' but whenever I feel my heart getting 
chilly, I go to a meeting of your peo- 
ple, — any kind of a meeting. Their 
warmth is genuine and irresistible- It 
is contagious, too, and has crept inside 
other walls than your own.' 

" When I asked her to visit us, she 
answered in her ready way : ' Well, if 
you will, I will come to-morrow. Alice 
is away, and I can leave now, better 
than when she comes back.' 

" Yes, Alice was away. I discovered 
afterward that this cheery soul, who 
could sing songs, get books into mar- 
ket, and whose plenitude of spirits was 
apparently unfailing, whose very gait, 
at once smooth and rapid, expressed 
swift and direct force, this hearty, hap- 
py woman, pined somewhat when sev- 
ered from her mate. In the stillness 
of the house her gayety drooped, and 
she had no one to think of. The ten- 
der curves of her mouth, the arch of 
her eyelids, something round and child- 
like in the whole contour, betokened 
this dependence of affection in her. 

" She came to us on the morrow, 



told numberless stories and jests, talked 
with her habitual earnestness, border- 
ing on vehemence when the conversa- 
tion turned on spiritualism (apologizing 
afterward, fearing she had 'forgotten 
herself '), and seemed heartily, to enjoy 
everything connected with her visit. 
We were all comfortable in her pres- 
ence, and utterly ignored that slight 
constraint one often experiences along 
with the pleasure of having a guest in 
the house. The second day was rainy, 
so she could not ride out, as we had 
planned, to see the scenes of the neigh- 
borhood. But she fell to discoursing 
on the charms of a wet day in a coun- 
try house, the fresh, growing verdure 
without, the open fire, the friendly as- 
pect of a library, the converse on men, 
women, and books, till we ceased to 
regret the weather, and congratulated 
ourselves silently through the day, say- 
ing, ' What a happy time, what a charm- 
ing rainy day we are having ! ' 

" In the course of conversation some 
one remarked her resemblance to Sap- 
pho, as she is known to us by the bust, 
and by descriptions ; the olive-brown 
tint, the stature rather under size, the 
low brow, etc. Phoebe accepted the 
comparison smilingly, in silence, but 
with a natural, modest pleasure. She 
won the favor of a child, the only one 
in the family. He wanted a poem, but 
dared not ask for it. Later, when the 
request reached her ears, she sent him 
some simple, characteristic verses upon 
himself. 

" During this visit, as often after- 
ward, I could but note the rapid move- 
ment of her mind. She thought quick- 
ly, spoke quickly ; never chattering 
nonsense, nor filling spaces of conver- 
sation with phrases, but always racy, 
healthful utterances, full of sense, wit, 
and vigor. Her natural simplicity 
never forsook her ; something of rural 
life, of virgin soil, the clear breeziness 
of Western plains was suggested by 
her character, as manifested in speech, 
aspect, and manner. 

" After this visit I did not see her 
again till the day of Alice's funeral. 
There, her extreme but restrained grief 
touched my heart ; for Death had en- 
tered my own door, and borne away my 
best-beloved. When she turned from 
her last look at her sister's face, and 



MXS. KOB/NSOff'S LETTER. 



83 



was supported by friends to her seat, 
it was plain that this bereavement had 
taken hold of the roots of her life, had 
drowned its bases in tears. I sent a 
note of sympathy, not wishing to in- 
trude upon her sorrow. But some 
weeks later, hearing that she was much 
alone, and needed society, I called one 
evening, and continued my visits week- 
ly and finally daily, up to her last de- 
parture from town. In some measure, 
she recovered her natural flow of spirits. 
Once, speaking of the Franco-German 
war, I said that the French more than 
any other nation were tainted with the 
virus oi Roman corruption, as evident 
in the latter (Roman) empire, instancing 
their epicurism, sensuality, cruelty, os- 
tentation, luxury, etc, 

•••I see." said Phcebe, 'you think 
they are still in the gall of bitterness 
and bond of iniquity.' 

•• She liked to talk of love and mar- 
riage, though entirely reticent of her 
own affaires du cceur ; and she was not 
without them. On those subjects she 
spoke with a woman's heart, and con- 
ceived the noblest ideals of them. 

'• • Whenever I write a story, often 
when only a poem,' she said once, " it 
must turn upon love.' 

" One evening, the first birthday of 
Alice after her death, I made one of a 
tea-party of four at the little house 
where so many guests had been so 
charmingly entertained. An elderly 
widow. Mrs. C — — who stayed with 
Phcebe after Alice's death, an old friend, 

Miss Mar)- B , Phoebe, and myself 

surrounded the table. The snug din- 
ing-room, the old-fashioned tea-service, 
the quaint china, the light biscuit, 
sweet butter, all the dishes comme il 
faut. everything bespeaking a carefully- 
ordered domestic life — I am sure you 
can recall similar evenings full of the 
same delightful impressions. We had 
jellied chicken that Phoebe had tried 
for the first time, for the occasion, and 
with entire success. We gossiped over 
our fragrant tea, and smiled at our- 
selves, a gathering of lone women; and 
all agreed that the hostess was less 
like an old maid than any of the others. 
Cheerful she was, in truth, much like 
her natural self ; yet in the evening, 
sitting apart with Miss B , she con- 
fessed that the absence of Alice affected 



her seriously ; that when she tried to 
write, no words would come ; that fail- 
ing here, she turned to household 
affairs, but could scarcely accomplish 
anything. Every morning her first 
thought on waking was, ' Here is an- 
other leaden day to get through with ; 
it will be precisely like yesterday, and 
such will be all days in all time to 
come ! ' 

" Plainly the watching and anxiety 
of the previous year had jarred her 
nerves. They were firmly set by nature, 
but through her illness their attenuation 
became extremely painful ; they grew 
sharp and fine as the worn strings of 
an instrument ; it was as if one could 
see them stretched too long, and too 
tensely — about to snap, as they did, 
indeed, at last. 

" One Wednesday afternoon I 
stopped at the door, and hearing that 
she was lying down, I simply left a 
bouquet with my love. When next I 
called, she entered the room with a 
poem about my flowers, the last verses 
she ever wrote, about the last paper 
that she touched with a pen. It seems 
that on the day of my former call she 
had given the morning to a memorial 
article of Alice (for the ' Ladies' Repos- 
itory' of Boston) and being quite worn 
out when it was done, lay down to rest. 
My flowers were brought freshly-cut, 
moistened by some drops of a spring 
show r er, and set on a stand by her 
lounge. She looked at them a few min- 
utes, rose quickly, 'as if quite rested,' 

Mrs. C said, was gone about 

twenty minutes in the opposite room, 
and returned with this pretty resolution 
of thanks. 

" Shortly afterward we attended the 
anniversary of one of the Woman Suf- 
frage Societies, where we heard Mrs. 
Livermore, Grace Greenwood, Dr. Eg- 
gleston, Mrs. Howe, Lucy Stone, and 
others. Miss Cary's interest in the 
movement was strong, and her remarks 
on the speakers just, and admirably to 
the point. She was then apparently as 
well and as cheerful as usual. 

" The following Sunday she passed 
in New Jersey, with her friends, Mrs. 
Victor and Mrs. Rayl. On her return, 
Monday, she was seized with a chill, 
which recurred more or less regularly 
for upwards of three weeks. They were 



8a 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 



extremely severe ; the suffering and 
exhaustion, for the time, were like 
those of death itself. Her appetite 
grew capricious, and soon failed alto- 
gether. We tried to tempt it by follow- 
ing her fancies ; but as soon as a new 
dish or drink was brought, she ceased 
to care for it. A stomachic cough con- 
nected with a derangement of the liver, 
that was common to the entire family, 
and imperfect sleep, combined to under- 
mine her strength. She suffered no 
pain, but an appalling misery, attended 
with extreme depression of spirits. 
She lamented often her lonely and for- 
lorn condition, and said her illness was 
' quite as much in the mind as in the 
body.' This however, was an attend- 
ant symptom of her malady. 

" After seeing her at the time of 
Alice's funeral, most of her friends 
were too busy in the affairs of spring, 
etc., to make visits ; and she had been 
ill for several weeks, before any of them 
knew of her affliction. I visited her 
daily, answered her correspondence, 
read much aloud, laughed and chatted ; 
did anything \ could to alleviate the 
mortal weariness that had come over 
her. She confessed to no confidence 
in any medical aid. Invalids had not 
been wanting in the family ; and no 
physician or medicine had availed for 
them. She thought that when they 
were so ill as to need the regular visits 
of a physician, they were subjects for 
death. Occasionally the old vigor 
would shine forth for a day ; but it 
was sure to be followed by a relapse. 

" On one of these better evenings, 
her friends, Miss Mary L. Booth and 
Mrs. Wright, called to see her. She 
lay on her lounge, and talked with much 
of her former vivacity ; recounted an 
accident that had happened some nights 
previously. Feeling restless and fever- 
ish, she had risen in the dark and made 
her way to the bath-room, wishing to 
bathe her head. In the dark she fell, 
hit her head against a chair with such 
force as to cut it, fainted, and lay in- 
sensible till restored to consciousness 
by the air from an open window. She 
then crept back to her couch, and was 
found quite exhausted in the morning. 
This serious accident she related with 
all the lightness it would admit, and act- 
ually made sport of some of the details. 



" ' You have read in sensation stories 
of heroines weltering in their gore,' she 
said ; I understand now exactly what 
that means, for I lay and weltered in 
my gore for the best of the night, and 
it was a very disagreeable proceeding : 
I never want to welter again.' 

" As her strength declined each day 
instead of mending, she was possessed 
of a desire to go away, and was per- 
suaded that an entire change would be 
of benefit. But in her invalid state she 
was unwilling to impose herself on any 
of her friends. Finally we persuaded 
her to accept a very cordial invitation 
from Mrs. H. O. Houghton of Cam- 
bridge, Mass., wife of Mr. Houghton, 
the publisher. Preparations were made 
for the journey ; but on the day appoint- 
ed for it, she was too ill to be moved from 
her room, and the plan was abandoned. 

" We then considered several places, 
deciding at last upon Newport, as offer- 
ing homelike quarters, with two single 
ladies, sisters, of a Quaker family with 
whom I was acquainted. It was ar- 
ranged for Mr. Jenckes (of Providence) 
and Mrs. Rayl to escort her thither, 
while I was to follow a fortnight later. 
The journey taxed her severely, and 
prostrated her to such an extent for 
some days after her arrival, that her 
life was despaired of. The air, that 
we hoped would prove medicinal, was 
thought to be too strong for her shat- 
tered frame, though the house stands a 
mile from the sea. Whether it was 
too strong or not, I cannot tell ; she 
herself chose it in preference to mount- 
ain air ; but she sank steadily after 
reaching Newport, and was too feeble 
to bear removal. She had been for 
nearly three months without regular or 
heathful rest. She ate and drank al- 
most nothing, could not lie down, but 
sat most of the time in a chair, leaning 
forward, supported on pillows, or was 
propped up in the bed. From dawn till 
eight or nine o'clock she was in the 
sharpest misery ; for the rest she' sat 
with closed eyes in a semi-stupor, from 
which she would arouse when ad- 
dressed. 

" Reading and conversation were 
given over. But one day I found Mr. 
Whittier's poem on Alice, in ' The At- 
lantic,' ' The Singer,' and read it at her 
request. When I had half done I 



PHIEBE CARY'S DEATH. 



85 



paused, thinking she had fallen asleep : 
but .she lined her eyes, and asked why 
I did not go on. • It was all one could 
wish or ask for,' she said, on hearing it 
to the cl 

•' Such nursing as she required was 
very simple. To tin away the flies, 
give the medicine at regular hours, 
change her position frequently, lift her 
from the chair to the bed and back 
again, and bathe hei swollen feet in salt 
water : this was nearly all that could 
be tlone. Of food and drink she took 
very little, and that mainly cold milk, 
beef tea. or iced claret. Some two or 
three times the doctor's prescriptions 
were too powerful for her exhausted 
frame, and caused severe pain, accom- 
panied with delirium. She would then 
rave at Maria and myself, upbraiding 
us as the cause of her sufferings ; but 
the frenzy past, she was gentle and 
sweet, like her usual self. One even- 
ing, in a paroxysm of this sort, she 
begged to be laid on the floor, and after 
expostulating in vain, we spread a quilt 
down, and laid her on it. Here she re- 
mained for above two hours, I stand- 
ing over her, and by slow degrees lift- 
ing her back to the bed. But these sad 
aberrations were not frequent nor last- 
ing. They ceased with the harmful 
medicines. 

•• Many persons in Newport, learning 
of her illness called to leave their con- 
dolences ; among others, Mr. Higgin- 
son, and Mrs. Parton. Her friend 
Oliver Johnson called twice, and 
though almost too weak to speak, she 
saw him both times. The first was on 
Saturday, when he promised to call 
again the next clay. The tears rolled 
down his face as he beheld her altered 
aspect ; her reception of him was most 
affectionate. On Sunday evening she 
seemed quite improved ; told the doc- 
tor she believed she had begun to get 
well, and wanted to be all dressed for 
Mr. Johnson's call : but for that prep- 
aration she was not equal. I had not 
been out for some time, therefore went 
to church in the morning, leaving her 
with Maria. On my return I found 
her still comfortable, though extremely 
restless, wishing to be moved every 
five or ten minutes. ' Don't mind if 
you pull me limb from limb,' she said 
quite placidly. ' Pull me about,' was 



her constant request. I repeated much 
of the sermon, and she commented on 
it in her naturally rapid manner. All 
this day she was more or less talkative. 
She saw Mr. Johnson, who left with 
her a nosegay of sweet-peas of rare va- 
rieties. Their odor was that of sweet 
apples, and this I spoke of. ' Who 
said anything of sweet apples ? ' she 
asked, lifting her eyes. When I made 
the comparison again, she buried her 
face repeatedly in the flowers, crushing 
them in her strong desire to extract 
their fragrance. She thought she 
would like a sweet apple, but, when 
it was brought, could only smell of it. 
That afternoon, sitting on the edge of 
the bed, she kissed and caressed Maria, 
talked of how they would go home, 
went over pleasantly every detail of the 
anticipated journey as a child would 
talk of it, and seemed altogether so 
tranquil and comfortable that any one 
unaware of her low state might have 
hoped for convalescence. But we 
could entertain no such hope. 

■• The restlessness increased all the 
next day, though in other respects she 
remained comfortable. Several times 
I lifted her alone from the chair to the 
bed, though how, I can hardly tell now. 
It was something I could do better 
than the others, for they invariably 
hurt her ; but generally Maria helped 
me. In the evening her restlessness 
increased, so that she could not lie still 
a moment. I was quite worn out, and 
for the first time, went early to a little 
room on the floor above, leaving a writ- 
ten report for the doctor, who generally 
called at eleven. I noticed when I 
went up-stairs that the moon was shin- 
ing, and that all was perfectly still ; not 
! so much as a leaf was stirring. I lay 
quiet, but awake ; heard the doctor en- 
ter, and go into her room. 

" Suddenly a gust of wind wailed 
through the house, and blew my door 
shut. A moment after I heard Phoebe's 
voice in a faint but piercing cry, and 
some one came up for me. I was two or 
three minutes in putting on a wrapper, 
etc., in the room adjoining hers, but all 
was still in there. When I entered, 
her eyes were closed, and the repose of 
death was settling on her brow. The 
death throe had seized her, but it lasted 
for a moment only, anc; for this I gave 



86 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHQZBE CARY. 



thanks even at that hour, for she had 
such fear of pain ; and though she suf- 
fered much, yet of actual pain she had 
but little from the beginning to this last 
hour. This was mercifully ordered in 
view of her peculiar inability to bear 
acute suffering. After death, her face, 
almost immediately, wore a tranquil 
smile — a smile as through tears of sun- 
light shining through rain ; and though 
I saw it no more after the last offices of 
the hour were rendered, I was told that 
till the coffin-lid closed finally upon it, 
this repose remained stamped there. 
Thus passed away one of the dearest 
souls that God ever set on the earth." 

Maria's story of that hour which she 
spent alone with Phcebe, Phoebe's last 
hour in this world, is most touching. 
" She could not lie down, but she was 
so restless," said Maria; "she kept 
saying to me, ' Maria, put my hair back. 

There! — that is just as 's hand 

used to feel on my forehead — so gen- 
tle. And to think that you and I are 
in the world alone — that after all, I 've 
nobody but you, Maria ? Everybody 
else gone so £ar away. Where are my 
friends ? Well, when we go back we 
won't live alone any longer, will we ? 
We won't live alone as we did last 
spring. We '11 open the house and fill 
it, won't we, Maria.' .... 'But if you 
go back, and I don't know, don't let 
me look ugly to my friends ; go out and 
buy me a white dress. All my life I 've 
wanted to wear a white dress, and I 
never could because I was so dark. I 
think I could wear one then Put it on 
me yourself, Maria, and cover me all 
over with flowers, so I shall not look 
gloomy and dreadful to anybody who 
looks on me for the last time.' " 

Thus she talked, one moment as if 
thev were going back to life and the old 
home on Twentieth Street, with uttered 
yearnings for friends, and an outreach- 
ing toward a mortal future full of sun- 
shine and human companionship ; the 
next, speaking as if her death were 
certain, the feminine instinct of decora- 
tion, the longing to look pleasant to 
those she loved, strong even in disso- 
lution. 

The loving heart was mightier than 
all. She would suddenly stop her low, 
rapid utterances, and stretching out 
her arms throw them around Maria's 



covering her face 
ending 
and 



neck, 

and kisses, 
words : " You 
Maria. After all, 



with caresses 

always with the 

I are all alone, 

fve nobody but 



you ! " bestowing upon her in that 
moment some of her most precious 
personal treasures. 

Without an instant's warning the 
death throe came. She knew it. 
Throwing up her arms in instinctive 
fright, this loving, believing, but timid 
soul, who had never stood alone in all 
her mortal life, as she felt herself 
drifting out into the unknown, the 
eternal, starting on the awful passage 
from whence there is no return cried, 
in a low, piercing voice, " O God, 
have mercy on my soul ! " and died. 

She had her wish. The white robe 
that she had so longed all her life to 
wear, fell in fleecy folds about her in 
death. She slept amid flowers, fresh 
and fragrant. The tender heart whose 
depth of affection had never been 
fully seen or felt within its outward 
shield of resplendent wit, now shone 
through and transfigured every feature. 
Every lineament was smiling, childlike, 
loving. She had her wish. No look 
on the living face of Phcebe Cary was 
ever so sweet as the last. 

Phcebe Cary died at Newport, Rhode 
Island, Monday, July 31, 1871. Her 
body was brought to the empty house 
on Twentieth Street, New York, and 
from thence was taken for funeral ser- 
vices to All Souls Church, corner of 
Fourth Avenue and Twentieth Street, 
whose congregation, coming and go- 
ing, Phcebe had so often watched from 
her chamber window, with emotions of 
affection. Her funeral was attended 
by her four nieces, by the few of her 
many friends at that time left in the 
heated city, and by a goodly company 
of strangers to whom her name was 
dear. The services were intrusted to 
the Rev. A. G. Laurie, a Scottish Uni- 
versalist clergyman, and Rev. Bernard 
Peters, both old and dear friends of 
the Cary family, the former having 
known Phcebe from childhood. The 
" New York Tribune," speaking of the 
solemnities, said : — 

" The body was placed in the centre 
aisle, near the chancel, the organ play- 
ing a dirge. When the attendants had 
arranged the final details, and the last 



THE CARY SISTERS. 



87 



strains of music were dying away, a 
cloud that had obscured the sun 

passed from before it, and the whole 
church was illumined by Soft, golden 
tints, seemingly indicative of the glory 

which awaited the peaceful spirit that 
had so recently passed away.*' 

At the conclusion of Mr. Laurie's 
affectionate and tearful address, he 
read Phoebe's hymn, " Nearer Home," 
which was sung by the choir, who also 
sang the following hymn, written by 
the officiating clergyman : — 

(> stricken heart, what spell shall move 
tin 

What charm shall lift that grief away, 
"Which, like a leaden mist above thee, 

Shuts out the shining of the day ? 

Is out of sight the friend unto thee 
'Fore every friend that sat the first ? 

Let not her silence thus undo thee ; 
The blank of Death is not its worst. 

And never shade of wrong lay on her ; 

She loved her kith, her kind, her God, 
And from her mind returned the Donor 

Rich harvest for the seed He sowed. 

She died in stress of love and duty, 
On others spent her work and will ; 

Unself — O Christ, thy chiefest beauty 
Was hers, and she is with Thee still. 

Then, smitten heart, renew thy gladness : 
Rejoice that thou canst not forget ; 

In every pulse, with solemn sadness, 
Unseen, but present, feel her yet. 

Horace Greeley and others went as 
far as they could with this dear friend 
on her long journey. When they saw 
all that was mortal of this last sister of 
her race laid in Greenwood, and turned 
back to her empty house, they realized 
with unspoken sorrow that its last light 
had gone out, and that the home in 
Twentieth Street was left desolate for- 
ever. 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE SISTERS COMPARED. — THEIR 
LAST RESTING-PLACE. 

It is impossible to estimate either 
sister without any reference to the 
other, — as impossible as to tell what a 



husband and wife, modified in habit 
and character by many years of wedded 
life, would have been hail they never 
lived together. 

Alice Can was remarkable for the 
fullness and' tenderness of her emo- 
tional nature, and for the depth and 
fidelity of her affections ; through 
these she was all softness and gentle- 
ness. But mentally she was a strong 
woman — strong in will, energy, indus- 
try, and patience ; through these she 
faced fate with a masculine strength of 
courage and endurance. It was not 
easy, but her will was strong enough 
to compel her life to do noble service. 

Phoebe, mentally and emotionally, 
was in every attribute essentially femi- 
nine. The terror of her mortal life 
was responsibility. It seemed abso- 
lutely necessary to her existence to 
know that somebody stood between 
her and all the inexorable demands 
and exigencies of this world. " I be- 
lieve a consciousness of responsibility 
could kill Phcebe Gary, even if she 
were in perfect health," said Alice. 
" She does not wish to feel responsi- 
bility for anything, not even for the 
saving of her own soul ; for that rea- 
son alone she would be a Roman Cath- 
olic if she could, and lay the whole 
burden of her salvation on the Church. 
Unfortunately for her comfort, the lit- 
eralness of her mind makes that im- 
possible." 

Alice Cary was preeminently, and in 
the highest and finest sense, an at- 
tractive woman. She was beloved of 
women. Young girls were drawn to- 
ward her In a sort of idolatry, and she 
was universally beloved of men. No 
man could come within the sphere of 
her presence without feeling all that 
was most tender, chivalric, and true in 
his manhood, instinctively going forth 
toward the woman by his side. It was 
the fine potent power of her femininity, 
her gentleness, and sincerity, her ten- 
derness and purity, which inspired all 
that was most tender and reverent in 
him. This feeling of sacred affection 
for Alice Cary was felt by all men who 
were her friends, no matter how various 
or conflicting their tastes might be in 
other things. When the loveliness of 
her face was not that of youth, there 
were artists who used to go to her 



S8 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PH02BE GARY. 



house Sabbath evening after Sabbath 
evening, "just to look upon her face." 
Said one, " It grows more beautiful 
every year." 

Alice was tall and graceful, with a 
suggestion of majesty in her simple 
mien. Her dark eyes were of a won- 
derful softness and beauty, with a fath- 
omless depth of tenderness in their ex- 
pression, which men and even women 



love. 



Yet there were not wanting lines 



of firmness and energy about the femi- 
nine mouth, and there was an impres- 
sion of silent power pervading her very 
gentleness. Phoebe had all the soft 
contours, the complexion, hair, and 
eyes, of a Spanish woman. And with 
her sparkle and repartee she had be- 
sides a Spaniard's languors. She was 
slightly below ordinary height ; full, 
without being heavy in outline. The 
prevailing expression of Alice's coun- 
tenance was one of sadness, pervaded 
with extreme sweetness ; but Phoebe's 
black eyes sparkled as she talked, and 
even when her face was in repose 
there was upon it the trace of a smile. 
Alice dressed with rich simplicity, and 
in the most resplendent drawing-room 
would have been noticed as one of the 
most elegant Avomen in it. Phoebe, in 
her more animated moments, would 
have been marked for her dark, brill- 
iant beauty, and would have reminded 
you of an Oriental princess in the 
warm brightness of her colors, and the 
distinctive character of her ornaments. 

The mental contrasts of the sisters 
were as marked as their physical. 
Alike in tastes and aspiration, they 
were unlike in temperament, in their 
habit of thought and of action. Each, 
in her own way, out of her own life, 
sacrificed much to the other, — how 
much only God and their own souls 
knew. Out of this mutual sacrifice 
was welded a bond stronger and closer 
than many sisters know ; through their 
life-long association, their sympathy, 
their very sisterhood, it drew them 
nearer and nearer together to the end. 
It produced at last an identification of 
existence such as we see where the 
natures of husband and wife have be- 
come perfectly assimilated because 
their life and fate are one. 

Notwithstanding the unity of their 
pursuits, the identity of their interests, 



their utter devotion to each other, out- 
side of this dual life each sister lived 
distinctly and separately her own ex- 
istence. Each respected absolutely 
the personal peculiarities of the other, 
and never consciously intruded upon 
them. Each thought and wrought in 
as absolute solitude as if she alone 
were in the house. The results of the 
labor they shared together ; but not 
the labor. Each respected so much 
the idiosyncrasies of the other's mind, 
that neither ever thought of criticising 
the other's work. If one offered a sug- 
gestion, it was because the other re- 
quested her to do so. 

Both had ways that at times were not 
altogether satisfactory to the other. 
Each accepted them as a part of the 
cross that she must bear for her sister, 
and she did not complain, nor did it 
cause any bitterness. For example, 
Alice's tireless energy and unswerving 
will at times wearied Phoebe, though 
she found in both the staff and support 
of her life, while Phoebe's inertia was 
a much more perpetual trial to Alice. 
She recognized the fact that she could 
not make the active law of her own 
being that of Phoebe's, and acquiesced, 
but not always with inward resigna- 
tion. 

According to Phoebe's own testimo- 
ny, Alice used mind and body unspar- 
ingly whenever she could compel them 
to obey her will. With all a woman's 
softness, she met the responsibilities 
of life as a man meets them. She 
never stopped to inquire whether she 
felt like doing a task, no matter how 
disagreeable it might be. If it was to 
be done she did it, and without words 
and without delay. 

It was Phoebe, the protected and shel- 
tered one, who consulted her moods. 
Perhaps this was scarcely a fault ; she 
obeyed the law of her being and the 
law of her life in this. Had she com- 
pelled her powers to produce a given 
amount of work, as Alice did, without 
doubt it would proportionately have de- 
preciated in quality. Absolute neces- 
sity did not force her to such toil, 
therefore she instinctively avoided it. 
Beside, a most touching humility al- 
ways held her back from testing her 
powers to the utmost. 

The same self - depreciation was 



THE CARY SISTERS. 



8 9 



Strong in Alice ; but her aspiration. 
her will to do her best, with the im- 
pelling demands of life, were so much 
Stronger, that neither brain nor hand 
were ever for a moment idle. She 
placed the highest estimate on Phoe- 
be's brilliant wit, clear vision, and apt 
and shrewd suggestiveness, as well as 
on her poetical genius. The former, 
especially, she thought a mine un- 
worked, and for years urged and en- 
couraged Phoebe to test the growing 
opportunities of correspondence of 
critical and editorial writing which 
journalism opened to women. But 
Phoebe was not to be persuaded even 
by the necessities of the occasion, or 
the eloquence of her sister. She con- 
tinued to coruscate in the little parlor, 
to fill the air with the flashes of a most 
exquisite wit, but she never turned it 
to any material account. When a 
song came singing through her brain, 
she would leave her sewing, or her 
novel, and go and write it down. Yet 
for a period of eight years she wrote 
comparatively nothing. In referring 
to this period she often said : " I 
thought that I should never write 
again. I had nothing to say, and felt 
an unutterable heaviness. If I did 
write anything it did not seem to me 
worth copying, much less reading." 
The causes of this mental barrenness 
were probably purely physical and 
temperamental. It is doubtful if in 
any effective degree it was in her power 
to help it. 

No less those were years in which 
the burden of life weighed sorely and 
heavily on Alice. Often she felt her- 
self stagger under the weights of life. 
She felt her strength failing. No less 
she knew that she must carry them 
alone, that there was no one on earth 
to help her. 

Phoebe outlived that period of men- 
tal inactivity. The war seemed to 
arouse and quicken all her nature. 
For the last five years of her life her 
genius was almost as productive as 
that of Alice. Her very best poems, 
with a few exceptions, were written 
within that peroiod. To the delight of 
her friends and the joy of her sister, 
her powers seemed continually to in- 
crease, her song to grow sweeter and 
fuller to the end. Had she lived ten 



years longer, without a doubt she would 
have risen to a height never attained 
by her before. Believing her sister 
always with her, it would have been as 
if the song of Alice was added to her 
own. 

Through nearly all their lives Phoebe 
had materially, intellectually, and spir- 
itually depended upon Alice. Though 
Phoebe had the more robust health, it 
was Alice who had the more resolute 
spirit. Over all the long and toilsome 
road from poverty to competence, it 
was Phoebe who leaned on Alice. It 
was Alice who bore the burden and 
heat of the day, and who smoothed the 
paths for her sister's feet. Not that she 
was idle, and did nothing ; but she 
paused, and doubted, and waited by 
the w r ay. Tears dimmed the lovely 
eyes of the elder, how often ; pain and 
weariness would have stayed her steps, 
but her high heart said, " Nay." Ne- 
cessity said, " You must not ! " She 
went on, she led her sister on, till they 
came to a height where both stood side 
by side. Then, the painful journey 
done, in the evening shadow it was 
Alice who leaned on Phoebe, and lean- 
ing thus, she died. 

But Phoebe lived through and for 
Alice so long, when she looked and 
saw her no more, the very impulse and 
power to live were gone. She sank 
and died, because she could not live 
on, in a world where her sister was not. 

Turning to the right, after entering 
Greenwood, a short walk brings you to 
an embowered slope, crowned by a 
grassy lot, on whose lowly gate is in- 
scribed the one word : " Cary." 

Within, side by side, are three 
mounds, of equal length, unmarked 
save by one low head-stone, whose 
velvet turf holds a few withering 
flowers, the only token of the loving 
remembrance of the living for the 
sleepers who rest below. Elmina, 
Phoebe, and Alice ! names precious to 
womanhood, names worthy of the ten- 
derest love of the highest manhood. 
Far from their kindred, here these sis- 
ters three sleep at last together. Here 
the pilgrim feet are stayed. Here the 
eager brains and tireless hands at last 
are idle. Here the passionate, tender, 
yearning hearts are forever still. On 
one side you hear the murmur and 



9 o 



MEMORIAL OF ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 



moan of the great metropolis, the tur- 
moil and anguish of human life never 
stilled. On the other, Ocean chants a 
perpetual requiem. As you listen, you 
are sure that it holds that in its call 
which is eternal ; sure that there is 
that in you which can never end ; sure 
that the love, and devotion, and divine 
intelligence of the women whom you 
mourn, still survive ; that they whom 
you loved in all the infirmity of their 
human state, await you now, redeemed, 
and glorified, and immortal. 

The autumn leaves fall on their 
graves in tender showers. The spring 
leaves, the summer flowers, bud and 
bloom around them in beauty ever re- 
newed. The air is penetrated with 
sunshine and with song. The place is 
full of the brightness that Phoebe loved, 
full of the soothing shade and peace so 
dear to Elmina and to Alice. 

Farewell, beloved trinity ! 

The words which Whittier wrote for 
Alice, this hour belong alike to each 
one : — 

" God giveth quietness at last ! 
The common wajfthat all have passed 
She went, with mortal yearnings fond, 
To fuller life and love beyond. 

" Fold the rapt soul in your embrace, 
My dear ones ! Give the singer place. 
To you, to her — I know not where — 
I lift the silence of a prayer. 

" For only thus our own we find ; 
The gone before, the left behind, 
All mortal voices die between ; 
The unheard reaches the unseen. 

" Again the blackbirds sing : the streams 
Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, 



And tremble in the April showers 
The tassels of the maple flowers. 

" But not for her has spring renewed, 
The sweet surprises of the wood ; 
And bird and flowers are lost to her 
Who was their best interpreter ! 

" What to shut eyes has God revealed ? 
What hear the ears that death had sealed ? 
What undreamed beauty passing show, 
Requites the loss of all we know ? 

" O silent land, to which we move, 
Enough if there alone be love ; 
And mortal need can ne'er outgrow 
What it is waiting to bestow ! 

" O white soul ! from that far-off shore 
Float some sweet song the waters o'er ; 
Our faith confirm, our fears dispel, 
With the old voice we loved so well ! " 

In the days of her early youth Phcebe 
wrote : — 

" Let your warm hands chill not, slip- 
ping 

From my fingers' icy tips : 
Be there not the touch of kisses 

On my uncaressing lips ; 
Let no kindness see the blindness 

Of my eyes' last, long eclipse. 
Never think of me as lying 

By the dismal mould o'erspread : 
But about the soft white pillow 

Folded underneath my head, 
And of summer flowers weaving 

Their rich broidery o'er my bed. 
Think of the immortal spirit 

Living up above the sky, 
And of how my face is wearing 

Light of immortality ; 
Looking earthward, is o'erleaning 

The white bastion of the sky." 




ALICE CARY'S POEMS. 



TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 

APOLOGY. 
[Prefacing the volume of Ballads, Lyrics, and Hymns published in 1865.] 

O ever true and comfortable mate, 

For whom my love outwore the fleeting red 
Of my young cheeks, nor did one jot abate, 

I pray thee now, as by a dying bed, 
Wait yet a little longer ! Hear me tell 

How much my will transcends my feeble powers : 

As one with blind eyes feeling out in flowers 
Their tender hues, or, with no skill to spell 

His poor, poor name, but only makes his mark, 
. And guesses at the sunshine in the dark, 
So I have been. A sense of things divine 

Lying broad above the little things I knew, 
The while I made my poems for a sign 

Of the great melodies I felt were true. 
Pray thee accept my sad apology, 

Sweet master, mending, as we go along, 

My homely fortunes with a thread of song, 
That all my years harmoniously may run ; 

Less by the tasks accomplished judging me, 
Than by the better things I would have done. 

I would not lose thy gracious company 
Out of my house and heart for all the good 
Besides, that ever comes to womanhood, — 

And this is much : I know what I resign, 

But at that great price I would have thee mine. 




BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



THE YOUNG SOLDIER. 

Into the house ran Lettice, 

With hair so long and so bright, 

Crying, " Mother ! Johnny has 'listed ! 
He has 'listed into the fight ! " 

" Don't talk so wild, little Lettice ! " 
And she smoothed her darling's 
brow. 
" T is true ! you '11 see — as true can 
be — 
He told me so just now ! " 

H Ah, that 's a likely story ! 

Why, darling, don't you see. 
If Johnny had 'listed into the war 

He would tell your father and me ! " 

** But he is going to go. mother. 

Whether it 's right or wrong : 
He is thinking of it all the while. 

And he won't be with us long." 

*• Our Johnny going to go to the war ! " 
•• Aye, a^e, and the time is near : 

He said, when the corn was once in the 
ground. 
We could n't keep him here ! " 

" Hush, child ! your brother Johnny 
Meant to give you a fright.'' 

" Mother, he '11 go, — I tell you I know 
He 's listed into the fight ! 

" Plucking a rose from the bush, he 
said, 
Before its leaves were black 
He 'd have have a soldier's cap on his 
head, 
And a knapsack on his back ! " 



" A dream ! a dream ! little Lettice, 

A wild dream of the night ; 
Go find and fetch your brother in, 

And he will set us right." 

So out of the house ran Lettice, 

Calling near and far, — 
" Johnny, tell me, and tell me true, 

Are you going to go to the war ? " 

At last she came and found him 

In the dusty cattle-close, 
Whistling Hail Columbia, 

And beating time with his rose. 

The rose he broke from the bush, when 
he said, 
Before its leaves were black 
He 'd have a soldier's cap on his 
head, 
And a knapsack on his back. 

Then all in gay mock-anger. 
He plucked her by the sleeve, 

Saying, " Dear little, sweet little rebel, 
I am going, by your leave ! " 

"O Johnny ! Johnny ! " low he stooped, 
And kissed her wet cheeks dry. 

And took her golden head in his hands, 
And told her he would not die. 

" But, Letty, if anything happens — 
There won't ! " and he spoke more 
low — 
" But if anything should, you must be 
twice as good 
As you are, to mother, you know ! 

" Not but that you are good, Letty, 
As good as you can be ; 



94 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



But then you know it might be so, 
You 'd have to be good for me ! " 

So straight to the house they went, his 
cheeks 

Flushing under his brim ; 
And his two broad-shouldered oxen 

Turned their great eyes after him. 

That night in the good old farmstead 

Was many a sob of pain ; 
" O Johnny, stay ! if you go away, 

It will never be home, again ! " 

But Time its still sure comfort lent, 

Crawling, crawling past, 
And Johnny's gallant regiment 

Was going to march at last. 

And steadying up her stricken soul, 

The mother turned about, 
Took what was Johnny's from the 
drawer 

And shook the rose-leaves out ; 

And brought the cap she had lined 
with silk, 
And strapped his knapsack on, 
And her heart, though it bled, was 
proud as she said, 
" You would hardly know our John ! " 

Another year, and the roses 

Were bright on the bush by the 
door ; 
And into the house ran Lettice, 

Her pale cheeks glad once more. 

" O mother ! news has come to-day ! 

'T is flying all about ; 
Our John's regiment, they say, 

Is all to be mustered out ! 

" O mother, you must buy me a dress, 
And ribbons of blue and buff ! 

Oh what shall we say to make the day 
Merry and mad enough ! 

" The brightest day that ever yet 
The sweet sun looked upon, 

When we shall be dressed in our very 
best, 
To welcome home our John ! " 

So up and down ran Lettice, 
And all the farmstead rung 

With where he would set his bayonet, 
And where his cap would be hung ! 



And the mother put away her look 

Of weary, waiting gloom, 
And a feast was set and the neighbors 
met 

To welcome Johnny home. 

The good old father silent stood, 
With his eager face at the pane, 

And Lettice was out at the door to shout 
When she saw him in the lane. 

And by and by, a soldier 

Came o'er the grassy hill ; 
It was not he they looked to see, 

And every heart stood still. 

He brought them Johnny's knapsack, • 

'T was all that he could do, 
And the cap he had worn begrimed and 
torn, 

With a bullet-hole straight through ! 



RUTH AND I. 

It was not day, and was not night ; 
The eve had just begun to light, 

Along the lovely west, 
His golden candles, one by one, 
And girded up with clouds, the sun 

Was sunken to his rest. 

Between the furrows, brown and dry, 
We walked in silence — Ruth and I ; 

We two had been, since morn 
Began her tender tunes to beat 
Upon the May-leaves young and sweet, 

Together, planting corn. 

Homeward the evening cattle went 
In patient, slow, full-fed content, 

Led by a rough, strong steer, 
His forehead all with burs thick set, 
His horns of silver tipt with jet, 

And shapeless shadow, near. 

With timid, half-reluctant grace, 
Like lovers in some favored place, . 

The light and darkness met, 
And the air trembled, near and far, 
With many a little tuneful jar 

Of milk-pans being set. 

We heard the house-maids at their 

cares, 
Pouring their hearts out unawares 
In some sad poet's ditty, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



95 



i with one small burning 



And heard the fluttering echoes round 
Reply like souls all softly drowned 
In heavenly love and pity. 

All sights, all sounds in earth and air 
Wore of the sweetest ; everywhere 

Ear. eye, and heart were fed ; 
The 

flower 
Blushed bright, as if the elves that hour 

Their coats thereon had spread. 

One moment, where we crossed the 

brook 
Two little sunburnt hands I took, — 

Why did I let them go ? 
I \e been since then in many a land, 
Touched, held, kissed many a fairer 
hand. 
But none that thrilled me so. 

Why, when the bliss Heaven for us 

made 
Is in our very bosoms laid, 

Should we be all unmoved. 
And walk, as now do Ruth and I, 
'Twixt th' world's furrows, brown and 
dry, 
Unloving and unloved ? 



HAGEN WALDER. 

The day, with a cold, dead color 
Was rising over the hill, 

When little Hagen W T alder 
Went out to grind in th' mill. 

All vainly the light in zigzags 
Fell through the frozen leaves, 

And like a broidery of gold 
Shone on his ragged sleeves. 

Xo mother had he to brighten 
His cheek with a kiss, and say, 

u T is cold for my little Hagen 
To grind in the mill to-day." 

And that was why the north winds 
Seemed all in his path to meet, 

And why the stones were so cruel 
And sharp beneath his feet. 

And that was why he hid his face 

So oft, despite his will. 
Against the necks of the oxen 

That turned the wheel of th' mill. 



And that was why the tear-drops 

So oft did fall and stand 
Upon their silken coats that were 

As white as a lady's hand. 

So little Hagen Walder 

Looked at the sea and th' sky, 

And wished that he were a salmon, 
In the silver waves to lie ; 

And wished that he were an eagle, 
Away through th' air to soar, 

Where never the groaning mill-wheel 
Might vex him any more : 

And wished that he were a pirate, 
To burn some cottage down, 

And warm himself ; or that he were 
A market-lad in the town, 

With bowls of bright red strawber- 
ries 

Shining on his stall, 
And that some gentle maiden 

Would come and buy them all ! 

So little Hagen Walder 

Passed, as the story says, 
Through dreams, as through a golden 
gate, 

Into realities. 

-And when the years changed places, 
Like the billows, bright and still, 

In th' ocean, Hagen Walder 
Was the master of the mill. 

And all his bowls of strawberries 

Were not so fine a show 
As are his boys and girls at church 

Sitting in a row ! 



OUR SCHOOL-MASTER. 

We used to think it was so queer 
To see him, in his thin gray hair, 

Sticking our quills behind his ear, 
And straight forgetting they were 
there. 

We used to think it was so strange 
That he should twist such hair to 
curls, 
And that his wrinkled cheek should 
change 
Its color like a bashful girl's. 



9 6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Our foolish mirth defied all rule, 
As glances, each of each, we stole, 

The morning that he wore to school 
A rose-bud in his button-hole. 

And very sagely we agreed 

That such a dunce was never 
known — 
Fifty / and trying still to read 

Love-verses with a tender tone ! 

No joyous smile would ever stir 
Our sober looks, we often said, 

If we were but a School-master, 

And had, withal, his old white head. 

One day we cut his knotty staff 
Nearly in two, and each and all 

Of us declared that we should laugh 
To see it break and let him fall. 

Upon his old pine desk we drew 
His picture — pitiful to see, 

Wrinkled and bald — half false, half 
true, 
And wrote beneath it, Twenty-three ! 

Next day came eight o'clock and nine, 
But he came not : our pulses quick 

With play, we said it would be fine 
If the old School-master were sick. 

And still the beech-trees bear the scars 
Of wounds which we that morning 
made, 
Cutting their silvery bark to stars 
Whereon to count the games we played. 

At last, as tired as we could be, 
Upon a clay-bank, strangely still, 

We sat down in a row to see 

His worn-out hat come up the hill. 



a quill 



sticking in the 



'T was hanging up at home 

Notched down, and 
band, 
And leaned against his arm-chair, still 

His staff was waiting for his hand. 

Across his feet his threadbare coat 
Was lying, stuffed with many a roll 

Of " copy-plates," and, sad to note, 
A dead rose in the button-hole. 

And he no more might take his place 
Our lessons and our lives to plan : 

Cold Death had kissed the wrinkled face 
Of that most gentle gentleman. 



Ah me, what bitter tears made blind 
Our young eyes, for our thoughtless 
sin, 

As two and two we walked behind 
The long black coffin he was in. 

And all, sad women now, and men 
With wrinkles and gray hairs, can see 

How he might wear a rose-bud then, 
And read love-verses tenderly. 



THE GRAY SWAN. 

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true, 

Is my little lad, my Elihu, 

A-sailing with your ship ? " 

The sailor's eyes were dim with dew, — 

"Your little lad, your Elihu ? " 

He said, with trembling lip, — 
" What little lad ? what ship ? " 

"What little lad ! as if there could be 

Another such an one as he ! 

What little lad, do you say ? 

Why, Elihu, that took to the sea 

The moment I put him off my knee ! 
It was just the other day 
The Gray Swan sailed away." 

" The other day ? " the sailor's eyes 

Stood open with a great surprise, — 
" The other day ? the Swan ? " 

His heart began in his throat to rise. 

" Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard 
lies 
The jacket he had on." 
" And so your lad is gone ? " 

"Gone with the Swan." "And did 

she stand 
With her anchor clutching hold of the 
sand, 
For a month, and never stir ?" 
" Why, to be sure ! I 've seen from the 

land, 
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, 
The wild sea kissing her, — 
A sight to remember, sir." 

" But, my good mother, do you know 
All this was twenty years ago ? 

I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, 
And to that lad I saw you throw, 
Taking it off, as it might be, so ! 
The kerchief from your neck," 
" Aye, and he '11 bring it back ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



97 



nd did the little lawless lad 
That has made you sick and made you 

sad, 

Sail with the Gray Swan's crew ? " 
•' Lawless ! the man is going mail ! 
The best boy ever mother hail. — 

lie suie he sailed with the crew ! 

What would you have him do ?" 

"And he has never written line. 

Nor sent you word, nor made you 

sign 
To say he was alive ? " 
" Hold ! if 't was wrong, the wrong is 

mine : 
Besides, he may be in the brine, 

And could he write from the 

grave ? 
Tut. man ! what would you 
hav, 

u Gone twenty years. — a long, long 

cruise. — 
'T was wicked thus your love to 
abuse : 
But if the lad still live. 
And come back home, think you you 

can 
Forgive him ? " — " Miserable man, 
You 're mad as the sea, — you 

rave. — 
What have I to forgive ? "' 

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, 
And from within his bosom drew 

The kerchief. She was wild. 

" My God ! my Father ! is it true ? 
My little' lad. my Elihu ! 

My blessed boy, my child ! 

My dead, my living child ! " 



THK WASHERWOMAN". 

At the north end of our village stands, 
With gable black and high, 

A weather-beaten house, — I 've stopt 
Often as I went by, 

To see the strip of bleaching grass 
Slipped brightly in between 

The long straight rows of hollyhocks, 
And currant-bushes green ; 

The clumsy bench beside the door, 

And oaken washing-tub. 
Where poor old Rachel used to stand. 

And rub. and rub. and rub ! 
7 



Her blue-checked apron Bpeckled with 

The suds, so snowy white •. 
From morning when I went to school 
Till 1 went home at night. 

She never took her sunburnt arms 

( Hit of the steaming tub : 
We used to say 't was weary work 

Only to hear her rub. 

With sleeves stretched straight upon 
the grass 

The washed shirts used to lie ; 
By dozens I have counted them 

Some days, as I went by. 

The burly blacksmith, battering at 

His red-hot iron bands. 
Would make a joke of wishing that 

He had old Rachel's hands ! 

And when the sharp and ringing 
strokes 

Had doubled up his shoe, 
As crooked as old Rachel's back, 

He used to say 't would do. 

And every village housewife, with 
A conscience clear and light. 

Would send for her to come and 
wash 
An hour or two at night ! 

Her hair beneath her cotton cap 
Grew silver white and thin ; 

And the deep furrows in her face 
Ploughed all the roses in. 

Yet patiently she kept at work, — 
We school-girls used to say 

The smile about her sunken mouth 
Would quite go out some day. 

Nobody ever thought the spark 
That in her sad eyes shone, 

Burned outward from a living soul 
Immortal as their own. 



And though a tender flush some- 
times 

Into her cheek would start. 
Nobody dreamed old Rnchel had 

A woman's loving heart ! 

At last she left her heaps of clothes 

One quiet autumn day, 
And stript from off her sunburnt arms 

The weary suds away ; 



9 8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



That night within her moonlit door 

She sat alone, — her chin 
Sunk in her hand, — her eyes shut up, 

As if to look within. 

Her face uplifted to the star 
That stood so sweet and low 

Against old crazy Peter's house — 
(He loved her long ago !) 

Her heart had worn her body to 

A handful of poor dust, — 
Her soul was gone to be arrayed 

In marriage-robes, I trust. 



GROWING RICH. 

And why are you pale, my Nora ? 

And why do you sigh and fret ? 
The black ewe had twin lambs to-day, 

And we shall be rich folk yet. 

Do you mind the clover-ridge, Nora, 
That slopes to the crooked stream ? 

The brown cow pastured there this 
week, 
And her milk is sweet as cream. 

The old gray mare that last year fell 

As thin as. any ghost, 
Is getting a new white coat, and looks 

As young as her colt, almost. 

And if the corn-land should do well, 
And so, please God, it may, 

I '11 buy the white-faced bull a bell, 
To make the meadows gay. 

I know we are growing rich, Johnny, 

And that is why I fret, 
For my little brother Phil is down 

In the dismal coal-pit yet. 

And when the sunshine sets in th' 
corn, 

The tassels green and gay, 
It will not touch my father's eyes, 

That are going blind, they say. 

But if I were not sad for him, 

Nor yet for little Phil, 
Why, darling Molly's hand, last year, 

Was cut off in the mill. 

And so, nor mare nor brown milch- 
cow, 
Nor lambs can joy impart, 



For the blind old man and th' mill and 
mine 
Are all upon my heart. 

SANDY MACLEOD. 

When I think of the weary nights and 

days 
Of poor, hard-working folk, always 
I see, with his head on his bosom 

bowed, 
The luckless shoemaker, Sandy Mac- 

leod. 

Jeering school-boys used to say 

His chimney would never be raked 

away 
By the moon, and you by a jest so 

rough 
May know that his cabin was low 

enough. 

Nothing throve with him ; his colt and 

cow 
Got their living, he did n't know how, — 
Yokes on their scraggy necks swinging 

about, 
Beating and bruising them year in and 

out. 

Out at the elbow he used to go, — 
Alas for him that he did not know 
The way to make poverty regal, — not 

he, 
If such way under the sun there be. 

Sundays all day in the door he sat, 
A string of withered-up crape on his 

hat, 
The crown half fallen against his head, 
And half sewed in with a shoemaker's 

thread. 

Sometimes with his hard and toil-worn 

hand 
He would smooth and straighten th* 

faded band, 
Thinking perhaps of a little mound 
Black with nettles the long year round. 

Blacksmith and carpenter, both were 

poor, 
And there was the school-master who> 

to be sure, 
Had seen rough weather, but after all 
When they met Sandy he went to the 

wall. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



99 



His wife was a lady, they used to 
say, 
tenting at leisure her wedding day, 
And that she was come of a race tOO 
proud 
r to have mated with Sandy Mac* 
leod ! 

fretting she sat from December to 

June, 
While Sandy, poor soul, to a funeral 

tune 
W mid beat out his hard, heavy leather, 

until 
He set himself up, and got strength to 

be Still. 

It was not the full moon that made it 
so light 

In the poor little dwelling of Sandy 

one night. 
It was not the candles all shining 

around, — 
Ah. no ! "t was the light of the day he 

had found. 



THE PICTURE-BOOK. 

The black walnut-logs in the chim- 
ney 
Made ruddy the house, with their 
light. 
And the pool in the hollow was covered 
With ice like a lid, — it was night ; 

And Roslyn and I were together, — 
I know now the pleased look he 
wore. 
And the shapes of the shadows that 
checkered 
The hard yellow planks of the floor ; 

And how, when the wind stirred the 
candle. 

Affrighted they ran from its gleams, 
And crept up the wall to the ceiling 

Of cedar, and hid by the beams. 

There were books on the mantel-shelf, 
dusty, 

And shut, and I see in my mind. 
The pink-colored primer of pictures 

We stood on our tiptoes to find. 

We opened the leaves where a camel 
Was seen on a sand-covered track, 



A-snufting for water, and bearing 
A great bag of goM Oil his back ; 

And talked of the free flowing rivers 

A tithe of his burden would buy, 

And said, when the lips of the sunshine 
Had sucked his last water-skin dry ; 

With thick breath and mouth gaping 
open. 

And red eyes a-strain in his head. 
His bones would push out as if buz/.ards 

Had picked him before he was dead ! 

Then turned the leaf over, and finding 
A palace that banners made gay. 

Forgot the bright splendor of roses 
That shone through our windows in 
May ; 

And sighed for the great beds of princes, 
While pillows for him and for me 

Lay soft among ripples of ruffles 
As sweet and as white as could be. 

And sighed for their valleys, forgetting 
How warmly the morning sun kissed 

Our hills, as they shrugged their green 
shoulders 
Above the white sheets of the mist. 

Their carpets of dyed wool were softer, 
We said, than the planks of our floor, 

Forgetting the flowers that in summer 
Spread out their gold mats at our door. 

The storm spit its wrath in the chimney, 
And blew the cold ashes aside, 

And only one poor little faggot 
Hung out its red tongue as it died, 

When Roslyn and I through thedark- 
ness 

Crept off to our shivering beds, 
A thousand vague fancies and wishes 

Still wildly astir in our heads : 

Not guessing that we, too. were straying 
In thought on a sand-covered track, 

Like the camel a-dying for water, 
And bearing the gold on his back. 



A WALK THROUGH THE SNOW. 

I walked from our wild north country 
once, 
In a driving storm of snow ; 



100 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Forty and seven miles in a day — 
You smile, — do you think it slow ? 

You would n't if ever you had ploughed 
Through a storm like that, I trow. 

There was n't a cloud as big as my 
hand, 
The summer before, in the sky ; 
The grass in th' meadows was ground 
to dust, 
The springs and wells went dry ; 
We must have corn, and three stout men 
Were picked to go and buy. 

Well, I was one ; two bags I swung 

Across my shoulder, so ! 
And kissed my wife and boys, — their 
eyes 

Were blind to see me go. 
'T was a bitter day, and just as th' sun 

Went down, we met the snow! 

At first we whistled and laughed and 
sung, 
Our blood so nimbly stirred ; 
But as the snow- clogs dragged at our 
feet, 
And the air grew black and blurred, 
We walked together for miles and 
miles, 
And did not speak a word ! 

I never saw a wilder storm : 
It blew and beat with a will ; 

Beside me, like two men of sleet, 
Walked my two mates, until 

They fell asleep in their armor of ice, 
And both of them stood still. 

I knew that they were warm enough, 

And yet I could not bear 
To strip them of their cloaks ; their 
eyes 

Were open and a-stare ; 
And so I laid their hands across 

Their breasts, and left them there. 

And ran, — O Lord, I cannot tell 

How fast ! in my dismay 
I thought the fences and the trees — 

The cattle, where they lay 
So black against their stacks of snow — 

All swam the other way ! 

And when at dawn I saw a hut, 
With smoke upcurling wide, 

I thought it must have been my mates 
That lived, and I that died ; 



'T was heaven to see through th' frosty 
panes 
The warm, red cheeks inside ! 



THE WATER-BEARER. 

'T was in the middle of summer, 

And burning hot the sun, 
That Margaret sat on the low-roofed 
porch, 

A-singing as she spun : 

Singing a ditty of slighted love, 
That shook with every note 

The softly shining hair that fell 
In ripples round her throat. 

The changeful color of her cheek 
At a breath would fall and rise, 

And even th' sunny lights of hope 
Made shadows in her eyes. 

Beneath the snowy petticoat 
You guessed the feet were bare, 

By the slippers near her on the floor, — 
A dainty little pair. 

She loved the low and tender tones 
The wearied summer yields, 

When out of her wheaten leash she 
slips 
And strays into frosty fields. 

And better than th' time that all 

The air with music fills, 
She loved the little sheltered nest 

Alive with yellow bills. 

But why delay my tale, to make 

A poem in her praise ? 
Enough that truth and virtue shone 

In all her modest ways. 

'Twas noon-day when the housewife 
said, 

" Now, Margaret, leave undone 
Your task of spinning-work, and set 

Your wheel out of the sun ; . 

" And tie your slippers on, and take 

The cedar-pail with bands 
Yellow as gold, and bear to the field 

Cool water for the hands ! " 

And Margaret set her wheel aside, 
And breaking off her thread, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE FORMS. 



101 



Went forth into the harvest-field 

With her pail upon her head, — 

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood. 
With shining yellow bands, 

Through clover reaching its red tops 
Almost into her hands. 

Her ditty flowing- on the air. 

For she ditl not break her song, 

And the water dripping o'er th' grass, 
From her pail as she went along, — 

Over the grass that said to her, 
Trembling through all its leaves, 

■• A bright rose for some harvester 
To bind among his sheaves ! " 

And clouds of gay green grasshoppers 

Flew up the way she went, 
And beat their wings against their 
sides, 

And chirped their discontent. 

And the blackbird left the piping of 

His amorous, airy glee, 
And put his head beneath his wing, — 

An evil sign to see. 

The meadow-herbs, as if they felt 
Some secret wound, in showers 

Shook down their bright buds till her 
way 
Was ankle-deep with flowers. 

But Margaret never heard th' voice 
That sighed in th' grassy leaves, 

" A bright rose for some harvester 
To bind among his sheaves ! " 

Nor saw the clouds of grasshoppers 

Along her path arise, 
Nor th' daisy hang her head aside 

And shut her golden eyes. 

She never saw the blackbird when 
He hushed his amorous glee, 

And put his head beneath his wing, — 
That evil sign to see. 

Nor did she know the meadow-herbs 
Shook down their buds in showers 

To choke her pathway, though her 
feet 
Were ankle-deep in flowers. 

But humming still of slighted love, 
That shook at every note 



The softly shining hair that fell 
In ripples round her throat, 

She came 'twixt winrows heaped as 

high, 
And higher than her waist, 
And under a bush of sassafras 
The cedar-pail she placed. 

And with the drops like starry rain 

A-glittering in her hair, 
She gave to every harvester 

His cool and grateful share. 

But there was one with eyes so sweet 

Beneath his shady brim, 
That thrice within the cedar-pail 

She dipped her cup for him ! 

What wonder if a young man's heart 
Should feel her beauty's charm, 

And in his fancy clasp her like 
The sheaf within his arm ; 

What wonder if his tender looks, 
That seemed the sweet disguise 

Of sweeter things unsaid, should make 
A picture in her eyes ! 

What wonder if the single rose 
That graced her cheek erewhile, 

Deepened its cloudy crimson, till 
It doubled in his smile ! 

Ah me ! the housewife never said, 
Again, when Margaret spun, — 

" Now leave your task a while, and set 
Your wheel out of the sun ; 

• 

" And tie your slippers on, and take 
The pail with yellow bands, 

And bear into the harvest-field 
Cool water for the hands." 

For every day, and twice a-day, 
Did Margaret break her thread, 

And singing, hasten to the field, 
With her pail upon her head, — 

Her pail of sweetest cedar-wood, 
And shining yellow bands, — 

For all her care was now to bear 
Cool water to the hands. 

What marvel if the young man's love 

Unfolded leaf by leaf. 
Until within his arms ere long 

He clasped her like a sheaf ! 



102 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



What marvel if 't was Margaret's heart 
With fondest hopes that beat, 

While th' young man's fancy idly lay 
As his sickle in the wheat. 

That, while her thought flew, maiden- 
like, 

To years of marriage bliss, 
His lay like a bee in a flower, shut up 

Within the moment's kiss ! 

What marvel if his love grew cold, 

And fell off leaf by leaf, 
And that her heart was choked to death, 

Like the rose within his sheaf. 

When autumn filled her lap with leaves, 

Yellow, and cold, and wet, 
The bands of th' pail turned black, and 
th' wheel 

On the porch-side, idle set. 

And Margaret's hair was combed and 
tied 

Under a cap of lace, 
And th' housewife held the baby up 

To kiss her quiet face ; 

And all the sunburnt harvesters 
Stood round the door, — each one 

Telling of some good word or deed 
That she had said or done. 

Nay, there was one that pulled about 

His face his shady brim, 
As if it were his kiss, not Death's, 

That made her eyes so dim. 

And while the tearful women told 
That when they pinned her shroud, 

One tress from th' ripples round her 
neck 
Was gone, he wept aloud ; 

And answered, pulling down his brim 

Until he could not see, 
It was some ghost that stole the tress, 

For that it was not he ! 

'T is years since on the cedar-pail 
The yellow bands grew black, — 

'T is years since in the harvest-field 
They turned th' green sod back 

To give poor Margaret room, and all 
Who chance that way to pass, 

May see at the head of her narrow bed 
A bush of sassafras. 



Yet often in the time o' th' year 
When the hay is mown and spread, 

There walks a maid in th' midnight 
shade 
With a pail upon her head. 



THE BEST JUDGMENT. 

Get up, my little handmaid, 
And see what you will see ; 

The stubble-fields and all the fields 
Are white as they can be. 

Put on your crimson cashmere, 
And hood so soft and warm, 

With all its woolen linings, 
And never heed the storm. 

For you must find the miller 
In the west of Wertburg-town, 

And bring me meal to feed my cows, 
Before the sun is down. 

Then woke the little handmaid, 

From sleeping on her arm, 
And took her crimson cashmere, 

And hood with woolen warm ; 

And bridle, with its buckles 

Of silver, from the wall, 
And rode until the golden sun 

Was sloping to his fall. 

Then on the miller's door-stone, 
In the west of Wertburg-town, 

She dropt the bridle from her hands, 
And quietly slid down. 

And when to her sweet face her beast 
Turned round, as if he said, 

" How cold I am ! " she took her hood 
And put it on his head. 

Soft spoke she to the miller, 

" Nine cows are stalled at home, 

And hither for three bags of meal, 
To feed them, I am come." 

Now when the miller saw the price 
She brought was not by half 

Enough to buy three bags of meal, 
He filled up two with chaff. 

The night was wild and windy, 
The moon was thin and old, 

As home the little handmaid rode 
All shivering with the cold, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



103 



Beside the river, black with ice, 
And through the lonesome wood ; 

The snow upon her hair the while 
A-iratheriiiLT like a hood. 

And when beside the roof-tree 
Her good beast neighed aloud, 

Her pretty crimson cashmere 
Was whiter than a shroud. 

u Get down, you silly handmaid,'' 
The old dame cried, " get down, — 

You *ve been a long time riding 

From the west of Wertburg-town ! " 

And from her oaken settle 
Forth hobbled she amain, — 

Alas ! the slender little hands 
Were frozen to the rein. 

Then came the neighbors, one and all, 

With melancholy brows, 
Mourning because the dame had lost 

The keeper of her cows. 

And cursing the rich miller, 

In blind, misguided zeal, 
Because he sent two bags of chaff 

And only one of meal. 

Dear Lord, how little man's award 

The right or wrong attest, 
And he who judges least, I think, 

Is he who judges best. 



HUGH THORXDYKE. 

Egaltox's hills are sunny, 
And brave with oak and pine, 

And Egalton's sons and daughters 
Are tall and straight and fine. 

The harvests in the summer 
Cover the land like a smile, 

For Egalton's men and women 
Are busy all the while. 

'T is merry in the mowing 
To see the great swath fall, 

And the little laughing maidens 
Raking, one and all. 

Their heads like golden lilies 

Shining over the hay, 
And every one among them 

As sweet as a rose in May. 



And yet despite the favor 

Which Heaven doth thus alot, 

Egalton has its goblin, 

As what good land has not ? 

Hugh Thorndyke— (peace be with him, 

He is not living now) — 
Was tempted by this creature 

One clay to leave his plow, 

And sit beside the furrow 
In a shadow cool and sweet, 

For the lying goblin told him 
That he would sow his wheat. 

And told him this, morever, 
That if he would not mind, 

His house should burn to ashes, 
His children be struck blind ! 

So, trusting half, half frightened, 
Poor Hugh with many a groan 

Waited beside the furrow, 

But the wheat was never sown. 

And when the fields about him 
Grew white, — with very shame 

He told his story, giving 
The goblin all the blame. 

Now Hugh's wife loved her husband, 
And when he told her this, 

She took his brawny hands in hers 
And gave them each a kiss, 

Saying, we ourselves this goblin 

Shall straightway lay to rest, — 
The more he does his worst, dear 



Hu 



ek 



The more we '11 do our best ! 

To work they went, and all turned out 

Just as the good wife said, 
And Hugh was blest, — his corn that 
year, 

Grew higher than his head. 

They sing a song in Egalton 
Hugh made there, long ago, 

Which says that honest love and work 
Are all we need below. 



FAITHLESS. 

Seven great windows looking seaward, 
Seven smooth columns white and 
high ; 



104 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Here it was we made our bright plans, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 



Soft and sweet the water murmured 
By yon stone wall, low and gray, 

'T was the moonlight and the mid- 
night 
Of the middle of the May. 



On the porch, now dark and lonesome, 
Sat we as the hours went by, 

Fearing nothing, hoping all things, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Singing low and pleasant ditties, 
Kept the tireless wind his way, 

Through the moonlight and the mid- 
night 
Of the middle of the May. 

Not for sake of pleasant ditties, 
Such as winds may sing or sigh, 

Sat we on the porch together, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Shrilly crew the cock so watchful, 
Answering to the watch-dog's bay, 

In the moonlight and the midnight 
Of the middre of the May. 

Had the gates of Heaven been open 
We would then have passed them by, 

Well content with earthly pleasures, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

I have seen the bees thick-flying, — 
Azure-winged and ringed with gold ; 

I have seen the sheep from washing 
Come back snowy to the fold ; 

And her hair was bright as bees are, 
Bees with shining golden bands ; 

And no wool was ever whiter 
Than her little dimpled hands. 

Oft we promised to be lovers, 

Howe'er fate our faith should try ; 

Giving kisses back for kisses, 
Mildred Jocelyn and I. 

Tears, sad tears, be stayed from fall- 
ing ; 

Ye can bring no faintest ray 
From the moonlight and the midnight 

Of the middle of the May. 

If some friend would come and tell me, 
" On your Mildred's eyes so blue 



Grass has grown, but on her death-bed 
She was saying prayers for you ; " 

Here beside the smooth white columns 
I should not so grieve to-day, 

For the moonlight and the midnight 
Of the middle of the May. 



MY FADED SHAWL. 

Tell you a story, do you say ? 

Whatever my wits remember? 
Well, going down to the woods one day 
Through the winds o' the wild No- 
vember, 
I met a lad, called Charley. 

We lived on the crest o' the Krumley 
ridge, 
And I was a farmer's daughter, 
And under the hill by the Krumley 
bridge 
Of the crazy Krumley water, 
Lived this poor lad, Charley. 

Right well I knew his ruddy cheek, 
And step as light as a feather, 

Although we never were used to speak, 
And never to play together, 
I and this poor lad Charley. 

So, when I saw him hurrying down 
My path, will you believe me ? 

I knit my brow to an ugly frown, — 
Forgive me, oh forgive me ! 
Sweet shade of little Charley. 

The dull clouds dropped their skirts of 
snow 
On the hills, and made them colder ; 
I was only twelve years old, or so, 
And may be a twelve-month older 
Was Charley, dearest Charley. 

A faded shawl, with flowers o' blue, 

All tenderly and fairly 
Enwrought by his mother's haiid, I 
knew, 
He wore that day, my Charley, 
My little love, my Charley. 

His great glad eyes with light were lit 
Like the dewy light o' the morning \ 

His homespun jacket, not a whit 
Less proudly, for my scorning, 
He wore, brave-hearted Charley. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



105 



I bore a pitcher. — "t was OUT pride, — 

At the fair mv father won it. 
And consciously I turned the side 
With the golden lilies on it. 
To dazzle the eyes o' Charley. 

This pitcher, and a milk-white loaf. 

Piping hot from the platter. 
When, where the path turned sharply 
off 
To the crazy Krumlev water, 
I came upon my Charley. 

He smiled, — my pulses never stirred 

From their still and steady measures, 
Till the wind came flapping down like 
a bird 
And caught away my treasures. 
" Help me, O Charley ! Charley ! 

Mv loaf, my golden lilies gone ! " 

My heart was all a-flutter ; 
For I saw them whirling on and on 

To the frozen Krumlev water, 
And then I saw my Charley, 

The frayed and faded shawl from his 
neck 
Unknot, with a quick, wise cunning, 
And speckled with snow-flakes, toss it 
back, 
That he might be free for running. 
My good, great-hearted Charley. 

I laid it softly on my arm, 

I warmed it in my bosom, 
And traced each broider-stitch to the 
form 
Of its wilding model blossom, 
For sake of my gentle Charley. 

Away, away ! like a shadow fleet ! 
The air was thick and blinding ; 
The icy stones were under his feet, 
And the way was steep and winding. 
Come back ! come back my Char- 
ley : 

He waved his ragged cap in the air, 

My childish fears to scatter ; 
Dear Lord, was it Charley? Was he 
there, 
On th' treacherous crust o' th' water ? 
Xo more ! 't is death ! my Char- 
ley. 

The thin blue glittering sheet of ice 
Bends, breaks, and falls asunder ; 



His arms are lifted once, and twice ! 
My God ! he is going under ! 

He is drowned ! he is dead ! my 
Charley. 

The wild call stops, — the blood runs 
chill ; 
I dash the tears from my lashes, 
And strain my gaze to th' foot o' th' 
hill, — 
Who flies so fast through the rushes ? 
My drowned love ? my Charley ? 

My brain is wild, — I laugh, I cry, — 
The chill blood thaws and rallies ; 
What holds he thus, so safe and high ? 
My loaf ? and my golden lilies ? 
Charley ! my sweet, sweet Char- 
ley ! 

Across my mad brain word on word 
Of tenderness went whirling ; 

I kisjsed him, called him my little bird 
O' th' woods, my dove, my darling, — 
My true, true love, my Charley. 

In what sweet phrases he replied 
I know not now — no matter — 
This only, that he would have died 
In the crazy Krumley water 
To win my praise, — dear Char- 
ley ! 

He took the frayed and faded shawl, 

For his sake warmed all over, 
And wrapped me round and round with 
all 
The tenderness of a lover, — 
My best, my bravest Charley ! 

And when his shoes o' the snows were 
full- 
Aye, full to their tops, — a-smiling 
He said they were lined with a fleece 
o' wool, 
The pain o' th' frost beguiling. 
Was ever a lad like Charley ? 

So down the slope o' th' Krumley 
ridge. 
Our hands locked fast together, 
And over the crazy Krumley bridge, 
We went through the freezing weath- 
er, — 
I and my drowned Charley. 

The corn fields all of ears were bare ; 
But the stalks, so bright and brittle, 



io6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the black and empty husks were 
there 
For the mouths of the hungry cattle. 
We passed them, I and Charley. 

And passed the willow-tree that went 

With the wind, as light as a feather, 
And th' two proud oaks with their 
shoulders bent 
Till their faces came together, — 
Whispering, I said to Charley : 

The hollow sycamore, so white, 

The old gum, straight and solemn, 
With never the curve of a root in sight ; 
But set in the ground like a col- 
umn, — 
I, prattling to my Charley. 



We left behind the sumach hedge, 
And the waste of stubble crossing, 

Came at last to the dusky edge 

Of the woods, so wildly tossing, — 
I and my quiet Charley. 

Ankle-deep in the leaves we stood, — 

The leaves that were brown as leather 
And saw the choppers chopping the 
wood, — 
Seven rough men together, — 
I and my drooping Charley. 

I see him now as 1 saw him stand 
With my loaf — he had hardly won 
it — 
And the beautiful pitcher in his hand, 
With the golden lilies on it, — 
My little saint — my Charley. 

The stubs were burning hear and there, 
The winds the fierce flames blowing, 
And the arms o' th' choppers, brown 
and bare, 
Now up, now down are going, — 
I turn to them from Charley. 

Right merrily the echoes ring 
From the sturdy work a-doing, 

And as the woodsmen chop, they sing 
Of the girls that they are wooing. 
O what a song for Charley ! 

This way an elm begins to lop, 
And that, its balance losing, 
And the squirrel comes from his nest 
in the top, 
And sits in the boughs a-musing. 
What ails my little Charley ? 



The loaf from out his hand he drops, 

His eyelid flutters, closes ; 
He tries to speak, he whispers, stops, — 

His mouth its rose-red loses, — 
One look, just one, my Charley. 

And now his white and frozen cheek 
Each wild-eyed chopper fixes, 

And never a man is heard to speak 
As they set their steel-blue axes, 
And haste to the help o' Charley ! 

Say, what does your beautiful pitcher 
hold ? 
Come tell us if you can, sir ! 
The chopper's question was loud and 
bold, 
But never a sign nor answer : 
All fast asleep was Charley. 

The stubs are burning low to th' earth, 

The winds the fierce flames flaring, 

And now to the edge of the crystal 

hearth 

The men in their arms are bearing 

The clay-cold body of Charley. 

O'er heart, o'er temple those rude 

hands go, 

Each hand as light as a brother's, 

As they gather about him in the snow, 

Like a company of mothers, — 

My dead, my darling Charley. 

Before them all (my heart grew bold,) 

From off my trembling bosom, 
I unwound the mantle, fold by fold, 
All for my blighted blossom, 

My sweet white flower, — my Char- 
ley. 

I have tokens large, I have tokens small 
Of all my life's lost pleasures, 

But that poor frayed and faded shawl 
Is the treasure of my treasures, — 
The first, last gift of Charley. 



OLD CHUMS. 

Is it you, Jack ? Old boy, is it really 
you ? 
I should n't have known you but that 
I was told 
You might be expected ; — pray how 
do you do ? 
But what, under heaven, has made 
you so old ? 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



107 



Your hair ! why, you 've only a little 
gray fuzz ! 
And your heart! 's white ! hut that 
can be beautifully d\ed ; 
And your legs arc n't but just half as 
long as they was ; 
And then — stars and garters ! your 
vest is so wide ! 

Is that your hand ? Lord, how I envied 
you that 
In the time of our courting, — so soft 
and so small. 
And now it is callous inside, and so 
fat, — 
Well, you beat the very old deuce, 
that is all. 

Turn round ! let me look at you ! is n't 
it odd. 
How strange in a few years a fellow's 
chum grows ! 
Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a 
pod, 
And what are these lines branching 
out from your nose ? 

Your back has gone up and your shoul- 
ders gone down, 
And all the old roses are under the 
plough ; 
Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet 
about town. 
I would n't have known you from 
Adam, I vow ! 

You 've had trouble, have you ? I 'm 
sorry : but John, 
All trouble sits lightly at your time 
of life. 
How 's Billy, my namesake ? You don't 
say he 's gone 
To the war, John, and that you have 
buried your wife ? 

Poor Katharine ! so she has left you — 
ah me ! 
I thought she would live to be fifty, 
or more. 

What is it you tell me ? She was fifty- 
three ! 

Oh no, Jack ! she was n't so much, by 
a score ! 

Well, there 's little Katy, — was that 
her name, John ? 
She '11 rule your house one of these 
days like a queen. 



That baby ! good Lord ! is she married 
and gone ? 
With a Jack ten years old ! and a Katy 
fourteen ! 

Then I give it up ! Why, you 're 
younger than I 
By ten or twelve years, and to think 
you 've come back 
A sober old graybeard, just ready to 
die! 
I don't understand how it is — do 
you, Jack ? 

I 've got all my faculties yet, sound and 
bright ; 
Slight failure my eyes are beginning 
to hint ; 
But still, with my spectacles on, and a 
light 
'Twixt them and the page, I can 
read any print. 

My hearing is dull, and my leg is more 
spare, 
Perhaps, than it was when I beat 
you at ball ; 
My breath gives out, too, if I go up a 
stair, — 
But nothing worth mentioning, noth- 
ing at all ! 

My hair is just turning a little you 
see, 
And lately I 've put on a broader- 
brimmed hat 
Than I wore at your wedding, but you 
will agree, 
Old fellow, I look all the better for 
that. 

I 'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 't is 
true, 
And my nose is n't quite on a 
straight line, they say ; 
For all that, I don't think I 've changed 
much, do you ? 
And I don't feel a day older, Jack, 
not a day. 



THE SHOEMAKER. 

Now the hickory with its hum 

Cheers the wild and rainy weather, 

And the shoemaker has come 

With his lapstone, last, and leather. 



io8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



With his head as white as wool, 
With the wrinkles getting bolder, 

And his heart with news as full 
As the wallet on his shoulder. 

How the children's hearts will beat, 
How their eyes will shine with pleas- 
ure 

As he sets their little feet, 

Bare and rosy, in his measure, 

And how, behind his chair, 

They will steal grave looks to sum- 
mon, 
As he ties away his hair 

From his forehead, like a woman. 

When he tells the merry news 

How their eyes will laugh and glis- 
ten, 

While the mother binds the shoes 
And they gather round and listen. 

But each one, leaning low 

On his lapstone, will be crying, 

As he tells how little Jo, 

With a broken back is dying. 

Of the way he ca'Vne to fall 
In the flowery April weather, 

Of the new shoes on the wall 
That are hanging, tied together. 

How the face of little Jo 

Has grown white, and they who love 
him 
See the shadows come and go, 

As if angels flew above him. 

And the old shoemaker, true 
To the woe of the disaster, 

Will uplift his apron blue 

To his eyes, then work the faster. 



TO THE WIND. 

Steer hither, rough old mariner, 
Keeping your jolly crew 

Beating about in the seas of life, ■ 
Steer hither, and tell me true 

About my little son Maximus, 
Who sailed away with you ! 

Seven and twenty years ago 
He came to us, — ah me ! 



The snow that fell that whistling night 

Was not so pure as he, 
And I was rich enough, I trow, 

When I took him on my knee. 

I was rich enough, and when I met 

A man, unthrift and lorn, 
Whom I a hundred times had met 

With less of pity than scorn, 
I opened my purse, — it was well for 
him 

That Maximus was born ! 

We have five boys at home, erect 
And straight of limb, and tall, 

Gentle, and loving all that God 
Has made, or great or small, 

But Maximus, our youngest born, 
Was the gentlest of them all ! 

Yet was he brave, — they all are 
brave, 

Not one for favor or frown 
That fears to set his strength against 

The bravest of the town, 
But this, our little Maximus, 

Could fight when he was down. 

Six darling boys ! not one of all, 

If we had had to choose, 
Could we have singled from the rest 

To sail on such a cruise, 
But surely little Maximus 

Was not the one to lose ! 

His hair divided into slips, 
And tumbled every way, — 

His mother always called them curls, 
She has one to this day, — 

And th' nails of his hands were thin 
and red 
As the leaves of a rose in May. 

Steer hither, rough mariner, and bring 
Some news of our little lad, — 

If he be anywhere out of th' grave 
It will make his mother glad, 

Tho' he grieved her more with his 
waywardness 
Than all the boys she had. 



I know it was against himself, 

For he was good and kind, 
That he left us, though he saw our eyes 

With tears, for his sake, blind, — 
Oh how can you give to such as he, 

Your nature, willful wind ! 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



IO9 



LITTLE CYRUS. 
Emily Mayfield all the day 

Sits and rocks her cradle alone, 
And never a neighbor conies to say 
How pretty little Cyrus has grown. 

Meekly Emily's bead is hung, 

Many a sigh from her bosom breaks, 

And ne'er such pitiful tune was sung 
As that her lowly lullaby makes. 

Near where the village school-house 
stands. 

On the grass by the mossy spring, 
Merry children are linking hands. 

But little Cyrus is not in the ring. 

'•They might make room for me, if 
they tried." 
He thinks as he listens to call and 
shout. 
And his eyes so pretty are open wide, 
Wondering why they have left him 
out. 

Nightly hurrying home they go, 

Each, of the praise he has had to 
boast 
But never an honor can Cyrus show, 
And yet he studies his book the most. 

Little Cyrus is out in the hay, — 

Not where the clover is sweet and 
red, 
With mates of his tender years at play, 
But where the stubble is sharp, in- 
stead, 

And every flowerless shrub and tree 
That takes the twinkling noontide 
heat, 

Is dry and dusty as it can be ; 

There with his tired, sunburnt feet 

Dragging wearily, Cyrus goes, 
Trying to sing as the others do, 

But never the stoutest hand that mows 
Says, " It is work too hard for you, 

Little Cyrus, your hands so small 
Bleed with straining to keep your 
place, 
And the look that says I must bear it 
all 
Is sadder than tears in your childish 
face : 



So give me your knotty swath to mow. 
And rest a while on the shady sward, 
Else your body will crooked grow, 
Little Cyrus, from working hard." 

If he could listen to words like that, 
The stubble would not be halt so 
rough 
To his naked feet, and his ragged hat 
Would shield him from sunshine well 
enough. 

But ne'er a moment the mowers check 
Song or whistle, to think of him, 

With blisters burning over his neck, 
Under his straw hat's ragged brim. 

So, stooping over the field he goes, 
With none to pity if he complain, 
And so the crook in his body grows. 
And he never can stand up straight 
again. 

The cattle lie down in the lane so 
still,— 
The scythes in the apple-tree shine 
bright, 
And Cyrus sits on the ashen sill 

Watching the motes, in the streaks 
of light, 

Quietly slanting out of the sky, 
Over the hill to the porch so low, 

Wondering if in the world on high 
There will be any briery fields to 
mow. 

Emily Mayfield, pale and weak, 

Steals to his side in the light so dim, 
And the single rose in his swarthy 
cheek 
Grows double, the while she says to 
him, — 

Little Cyrus, 't is many a day 

Since one with just your own sweet 
eyes, 
And a voice as rich as a bird's in May, 
(Gently she kisses the boy and 
sighs,) 

Here on the porch when the work was 
done, 
Sat with a young girl, (not like me,) 
Her heart was light as the wool she 
spun. 
And her laughter merry as it could 
be ; 



no 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Her hair was silken, he used to say, 
When they sat on the porch-side, 
"woeful when," 
And I know the clover you mowed to- 
day 
Was not more red than her cheeks 
were then. 

He told her many a story wild, 

Like this, perhaps, which I tell to 
you, 
And she was a woman less than child, 
And thought whatever he said was 
true. 

From home and kindred, — ah me, ah 
me ! 
With only her faith in his love, she 
fled, 
'T was all like a dreaming, and when 
she could see 
She owned she was sinful and prayed 
to be dead. 

But always, however long she may 
live, 
Desolate, desolate, she shall re- 
pine, 
And so with no'love to receive or to 
give, 
Her face is as sad and as wrinkled 
as mine. 

Little Cyrus, trembling, lays 

His head on his mother's knee to 
cry, 
And kissing his sunburnt cheek, she 
says, 
" Hush, my darling, it was not I." 



FIFTEEN AND FIFTY. 

Come, darling, put your frown aside ! 

I own my fault, 't is true, 'tis true, 
There is one picture that I hide, 

Even away from you ! 

Why, then, I do not love you ? Nay, 
You wrong me there, my pretty one : 

Remember you are in your May ; 
My summer days are done, 

My autumn days are come, in truth, 
And blighting frosts begin to fall ; 

You are the sunny light of youth, 
That glorifies it all. 



Even when winter clouds shall break 
In storms, I shall not mind, my 
dear, 

For you within my heart shall make 
The springtime of the year ! 

In short, life did its best for me, 
When first our paths together ran ; 

But I had lived, you will agree, 
One life, ere yours began. 

I must have smiled, I must have wept, 
Ere mirth or moan could do you 
wrong ; 

But come, and see the picture, kept 
Hidden away so long ! 

The walk will not be strange nor far, — 
Across the meadow, toward the tree 

From whose thick top one silver star 
Uplifting slow, you see. 

So darling, we have gained the hight 
Where lights and shadows softly 
meet ; 

Rest you a moment, — full in sight, 
My picture lies complete. 

A hill-side dark, with woods behind, 
A strip of emerald grass before, — 

A homely house ; some trees that blind 
Window, and wall, and door. 

A singing streamlet, — either side 
Bordered with flowers, geraniums 

And pinks, with red mouths open wide 
For sunshine, all the day. 

A tasseled corn field on one hand, 
And on the other meadows green, 

With angles of bright harvest bend 
Wedged sunnily between. 

A world of smiling ways and walks, 
The hop-vines twisting through the 
pales, 

The crimson cups o' the hollyhocks, 
The lilies, in white veils ; 

The porch with morning-glories gay, 
And sunken step, the well-sweep tall, 

The barn, with roof 'twixt black and 
gray, 
And warpt, wind-shaken wall ; 

The garden with the fence of stone, 
The lane so dusky at the close, 



BALLADS AND MA A'A\ l 'I'll '/•: / '< )EMS. 



I I I 



The door-yard gate all overgrown 
With one wild smothering rose; 

The honeysuckle that has blown 
His trumpet till his throat is red. 

And the wild swallow, mateless flown 
Under the lonesome sheil : 

The corn, with bean-pods showing 
through, 

The fields that to the sunset lean, 
The crooked paths along the dew, 

Telling of flocks unseen. 

The bird in scarlet-colored coat 
Flying about the apple-tree; 

The new moon in her shallow boat, 
Sailing alone, you see ; 

The aspen at the window-pane, — 
The pair of bluebirds on the 
peach, — 

The yellow waves of ripening grain, — 
You see them all and each. 

The shadows stretching to the door, 
From far-off hills, and nearer trees, 

I cannot show you any more, — 
The landscape holds but these. 

And yet, my darling, after all 
'T is not my picture you behold ; 

Your house is ruined near to fall, — 
Your flowers are dew and mould. 

1 wish that you could only see, 

While the glad garden shines its best, 

The little rose that was to me 
The queen of all the rest. 

The bluebirds, — he with scarlet 
wings,— 

The silver brook, the sunset glow, 
To me are but the signs of things 

The landscape cannot show. 

That old house was our home — not 
ours .' 
You were not born — how could it 
be? 
That window where you see the flow- 
ers, 
Is where she watched for me, 

So pale, so patient, night by night, 
Her eyes upon this pathway here, 

Until at last I came in sight, — - 
Nay, do not frown, my dear, 



That was another world ! and so 
Between us there can be no strife ; 

1 was but twenty, you must know, 
And she my baby- wile ! 

Twin violets by a. shady brook 

Were like her eyes, — their beaute- 

ousness 
Was in a rainy, moonlight look 
Of tears and tenderness. 

Her fingers had a dewy touch ; 

Grace was in all her modest ways ; 
Forgive my praising her so much, — 

She cannot hear my praise. 

Beneath the window where you see 
The trembling, tearful flowers, she 
lay, 

Her arms as if they reached for me, — 
Her hair put smooth away. 

The closed mouth still smiling sweet, 
The waxen eyelids, drooping low, 

The marriage-slippers on the feet, — 
The marriage-dress of snow ! 

And still, as in my dreams, I do, 

I kiss the sweet white hands, the 
eyes ; 

My heart with pain is broken anew, 
My soul with sorrow dies. 

It was, they said, her spirit's birth, — 
That she was gone, a saint to be ; 

Alas ! a poor, pale piece of earth 
Was all that I could see. 

In tears, my darling ! that fair brow 
With jealous shadows overrun ? 

A score of flowers upon one bough 
May bloom as well as one ! 

This ragged bush, from spring to 
fall 

Stands here with living glories lit ; 
And every flower a-bLush, with all 

That doth belong to it ! 

i Look on it ! learn the lesson then, — 
No more than we evoke, is ours ! 
The great law holdeth good with men, 
The same as with the flowers. 

And if that lost, that sweet white hand 
Had never blessed me with its light, 

You had not been, you understand, 
More than you are to-night. 



112 



THE POEMS OE ALICE CARY. 



This foolish pride that women have 

To play upon us, — to enthrall, 
To absorb, doth hinder what they 
crave, 



Their being loved at all ! 



Never the mistress of the arts 
They practice on us, still again 

And o'er again, they wring our hearts 
With pain that giveth pain ! 

They make their tyranny a boast, 
And in their petulance will not see 

That he is always bound the most, 
Who in the most is free ! 

They prize us more for what they screen 
From censure, than for what is best ; 

And you, my darling, at fifteen, 
Why, you are like the rest ! 

Your arms would find me now, though I 
Were low as ever guilt can fall ; 

And that, my little love, is why 
I love you, after all ! 

Smiling ! " the pain is worth the cost, 
That wins a homily so wise ? " 

Ah, little tyrant, *I am lost, 
When thus you tyrannize. 



JENNY DUNLEATH. 

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the 

town ? 
What ! coming back here for good, and 

for all ? 
Well, that 's the last thing for Jenny 

to do, — 
I 'd go to the ends of the earth, — 

would n't you ? 
Before I 'd come back ! She '11 be 

pushed to the wall. 
Some slips, I can tell her, are never 

lived down, 
And she ought to know it. It 's really 

true, 
You think, that she 's coming ? How 

dreadfully bold ! 
But one don't know what will be done, 

nowadays, 
And Jenny was never the girl to be 

moved 
By what the world said of her. What 

she approved, 
She would do, in despite of its blame 

or its praise. 



She ought to be wiser by this time — 

let 's see ; 
Why, sure as you live, she is forty 

years old ! 
The day I was married she stood up 

with me, 
And my Kate is twenty : ah yes, it must 

be 
That Jenny is forty, at least — forty- 
three, 
It may be, or four. She was older, I 

know, 
A good deal, when she was bridesmaid, 

than I, 
And that 's twenty years, now, and 

longer, ago ; 
So if she intends to come back and 

deny 
Her age, as 't is likely she will, I can 

show 
The plain honest truth, by the age of 

my Kate, 
And I will, too ! To see an old maid 

tell a lie, 
Just to seem to be young, is a thing that 

I hate. 

You thought we were friends ? No, 

my dear, not at all ! 
'T is true we were friendly, as friendli- 
ness goes, 
But one gets one's friends as one 

chooses one's clothes, 
And just as the fashion goes out, lets 

them fall. 
I will not deny we were often together 
About the time Jenny was in her high 

feather ; 
And she was a beauty ! No rose of 

the May 
Looked ever so lovely as she on the 

day 
I was married. She, somehow, could 

grace 
Whatever thing touched her. The 

knots of soft lace 
On her little white shoes, — the gay 

cap that half hid 
Her womanly forehead, — the bright 

hair that slid 
Like sunshine adown her bare shoul- 
ders, — the gauze 
That rippled about her sweet arms, just 

because 
'T was Jenny that wore it, — the flower 

in her belt, — 
No matter what color, 't was fittest, you 

felt. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



"3 



If she sighed, if she smiled, if she 

played with her fan, 
wl of religious coquettishness ran 
Through it all, — a bewitching and 

wildering way. 
All tearfully tender and graciously 

gay. 
If e'er you were foolish in word or in 

speech. 
The approval she gave with her serious 

ej 
Would make your own foolishness 

seem to you wis 
So all from her magical presence, and 

each. 
Went happy away : 't was her art to 

confer 
A self-love, that ended in your loving 

her. 

And so she is coming back here ! a 

mishap 
To her friends, if she have any friends, 

one would say. 
Well, well, she can't take her old place 

in the lap 
Of holiday fortune : her head must be 

grav : 
And those dazzling cheeks ! I would 

just like to see 
How she looks, if I could without her 

seeing me. 

To think of the Jenny Dunleath that I 

knew. 
A dreary old maid with nobody to love 

her, — 
Her hair silver-white and no roof-tree 

above her. — 
One ought to have pity upon her, — 

't is true ! 
But I never liked her : in truth, I was 

glad 
In my own secret heart when she came 

to her fall : 
When praise of her meekness was ring- 
ing the loudest 
I always would say she was proud as 

the proudest ; 
That meekness was only a trick that 

she had, — 
She was too proud to seem to be proud, 

that was all. 

She stood up with me, I was saying : 

that day 
Was the last of her going abroad for 

long years ; 

8 



I never had seen her so bright and so 

gay, 
Yet, spite of the lightness. I had my 

own fears 
That all was not well with her : \ was 

but her pride 
Made her sing the old songs when they 

asked her to sing. 
For when it was done with, and we 

were aside, 
A look wan and weary came over her 

brow. 
And still I can feel just as if it were 

now. 
How she slipped up and down on my 

finger, the ring, 
And so hid her face in my bosom and 

cried. 

When the fiddlers were come, and 

young Archibald Mill 
Was dancing with Hetty, I saw how it 

was ; 
Nor was I misled when she said she 

was ill, 
For the clews were not standing so 

thick in the grass 
As the drops on her cheeks. So you 

never have heard 
How she fell in disgrace w r ith young 

Archibald ! No ? 
I won't be the first, then, to whisper a 

word, — 
Poor thing ! if she only repent, let it 

go! 

Let it go ! let what go ? My good 

madam, I pray, 
Whereof do I stand here accused ? I 

would know, — 
I am Jenny Dunleath, that you knew 

long ago, 
A dreary old maid, and unloved, as you 

say : 
God keep you, my sister, from know- 
ing such woe ! 
Forty years old, madam, that I agree. 
The roses washed out of my cheeks by 

the tears ; 
And counting my barren and desolate 

years 
By the bright little heads dropping 

over your knee, 
You look on my sorrow with scorn, it 

appears. 

Well, smile, if you can, as you hold up 
in sight 



U4 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Your matronly honors, for all men to 

see ; 
But I cannot discern, madam, what 

there can be 
To move your proud mirth, in the wild- 

ness of night 
Falling round me ; no hearth for my 

coming alight, — 
No rosy-red cheeks at the windows for 

me. 

My love is my shame, — in your love 

you are crowned, — 
But as we are women, our natures are 

one ; 
By need of its nature, the dew and the 

sun 
Belong to the poorest, pale flower o' 

the ground. 
And think you that He who created the 

heart 
Has struck it all helpless and hopeless 

apart 
From these lesser works ? Nay, I hold 

He has bound 
Our rights with our needs in so sacred 

a knot, 
We cannot undo them with any mere 

lie ; 
Nay, more, my proud lady, — the love 

you have got, 
May belong to another as dreary 

as I ! 
You have all the world's recognition, — 

your bond, — 
But have you that better right, lying 

beyond ? — 
Agreement with Conscience ? — that 

sanction whereby 
You can live in the face of the crudest 

scorns ? 
Aye, set your bare bosom against the 

sharp thorns 
Of jealousy, hatred, — against all the 

harms 
Bad fortune can gather, — and say, 

.With these arms 
About me, I stand here to live and to 

die! 
I take you to keep for my patron and 

saint, 
And you shall be bound by tfiat sweet- 
est constraint 
Of a liberty wide as the love that you 

give ; 
And so to the glory of God we will 

live, 



Through health and through sickness, 

dear lover and friend, 
Through light and through darkness, 

— through all, to the end ! 

Let it go ! Let what go ? Make me 

answer, I pray. 
You were speaking just now of some 

terrible fall, — 
My love for young Archibald Mill, — is 

that all? 
I loved him with all my young heart, as 

you say, — 
Nay, what is more, madam, I love him 

to-day, — 
My cheeks thin and wan, and my hair 

gray on gray ! 
And so I am bold to come back to the 

town, 
In hope that at last I may lay my bones 

down, 
And have the green grasses blow over 

my face, 
Among the old hills where my love had 

its birth ! 
If love were a trifle, the morning to 

grace, 
And fade when the night came, why, 

what were it worth ? 

He is married ! and I am come hither 

too late ? 
Your vision misleads you, — so pray 

you, untie 
That knot from your sweet brow, — I 

come here to die, 
And not make a moan for the chances 

of fate ! 
I know that all love that is true is di- 
vine, 
And when this low incident, Time, shall 

have sped, 
I know the desire of my soul shall be 

mine, — 
That, weary, or wounded, or dying, or 

dead, 
The end is secure, so I bear the 

estate — 
Despised of the world's favored women 

— and wait. 



TRICK§EY'S RING. 

O what a day it was to us, — 
My wits were upside down, 



UAL LADS A .YD NARRATIVE POEMS 



115 



When cousin Joseph Nicholas 
Came visiting from town ! 

His curls they were so smooth and 
bright, 

His frills they were so fine. 
I thought perhaps the stars that night 

Would be ashamed to shine. 

But when the dews had touched the 
grass, 

They came out, large and small, 

i our cousin Nicholas 
Had not been there at all ! 

Our old house never seemed to me 
poor and mean a thing 
:hen. and just because that he 
Was come a-visiting ! 

I never thought the sun prolonged 

His light a single whit 
Too much, till then, nor thought he 
wronged 

My face, by kissing it. 

But now I sought to pull my dress 

Of faded homespun down. 
Because my cousin Nicholas 

Would see my feet were brown. 

The butterflies — bright airy things — 

From off the lilac buds 
I scared, for having on their wings 

The shadows of the woods. 

I thought my straight and jet black hair 

Was almost a disgrace, 
Since Joseph Nicholas had fair 

Smooth curls about his face. 

I wished our rosy window sprays 
Were laces, dropping down, 

That he might think we knew the ways 
Of rich folks in the town. 

I wished the twittering- swallow had 

A finer tune to sing, 
Since such a stylish city lad 

Was come a-visiting. 

I wished the hedges, as they swayed, 

Were each a solid wall, 
And that our grassy lane were made 

A market street withal. 

I wished the drooping heads of rye, 
Set full of silver dews, 



Were silken tassels all to tie 
The ribbons of his shoes ! 

Ami when, by homely household slight, 
They called me Tricksey True, 

I thought my cheeks would blaze, in 
spite 
Oi all that I could do. 

Tricksey ! — that name would surely be 

A shock to ears polite ; 
In short I thought that nothing we 

Could say or do was right. 

For injured pride I could have wept, 

Until my heart and I 
Fell musing how my mother kept 

So equable and high. 

She did not cast her eyelids down, 

Ashamed of being poor ; 
To her a gay young man from town, 

Was no discomfiture. 

She reverenced honor's sacred laws 
As much, aye more than he, 

And was not put about because 
He had more gold than she ; 

But held her house beneath a hand 

As steady and serene, 
As though it were a palace, and 

As though she were a queen. 

And when she set our silver cup 

Upon the cloth of snow, 
For Nicholas, I lifted up 

My timid eyes, I know ; 

And saw a ring, as needs I must, 
Upon his finger shine ; 

how I longed to have it just 
A minute upon mine ! 

1 thought of fairy folk that led 
Their lives in sylvan shades, 

And brought fine things, as I had read, 
To little rustic maids. 

And so I mused within my heart, 

How I would search about 
The fields and woodlands, for my part, 

Till I should spy them out. 

And so when down the western sky 
The sun had dropped at last, 

Right softly and right cunningly 
From out the house I passed. 



n6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



It was as if awake I dreamed, 

All Nature was so sweet 
The small round dandelions seemed 

Like stars beneath my feet. 

Fresh greenness as I went along 
The grass did seem to take, 

And birds beyond the time of song 
Kept singing for my sake. 

The dew o'erran the lily's cup, 
The ground-moss shone so well, 

That if the sky were down or up, 
Was hard for me to tell. 

I never felt my heart to sit 

So lightly on its throne ; 
Ah, who knew what would come of 
it, 

With fairy folk alone ! 

An hour, — another hour went by, 

All harmless arts I tried, 
And tried in vain, and wearily 

My hopes within me died. 

No tent of moonshine, and no ring 
Of dancers could I find, — 

The fairy rich folk and their king 
For once would be unkind ! 

My spirit, nameless fear oppressed ; 

My courage went adrift, 
As all out of the low dark west 

The clouds began to lift. 

I lost my way within the wood, — 
The path I could not guess, 

When, Heaven be praised, before me 
stood 
My cousin Nicholas ! 

Right tenderly within his arm 
My shrinking hand he drew ; 

He spoke so low, " these damps will 
harm 
My little Tricksey True." 

I know not how it was : my shame 
In new delight was drowned ; 

His accent gave my rustic name 
Almost a royal sound. 

He bent his cheek against my face, — 

He whispered in my ear, 
" Why came you to this dismal place ? 

Tell me, my little dear ! " 



Betwixt the boughs that o'er us hung 

The light began to fall ; 
His praises loosed my silent tongue, — 

At last I told him all. 

I felt his lips my forehead touch ; 

I shook and could not stand ; 
The ring I coveted so much 

Was shining on my hand ! 

We talked about the little elves 

And fairies of the grove, 
And then we talked about ourselves, 

And then we talked of love. 

'T was at the ending of the lane, — 

The garden yet to pass, 
I offered back his ring again 

To my good Nicholas. 

" Dear Tricksey, don't you understand, 

You foolish little thing," 
He said, " that I must have the hand, 

As well as have the ring ? " 

"To-night — just now! I pray you 
wait ! 
The hand is little worth ! " 
"Nay darling — now ! we 're at the 
gate ! " 
And so he had them both ! 



CRAZY CHRISTOPHER. 

Neighbored by a maple wood, 
Dim and dusty, old and low ; 

Thus our little school-house stood, 
Two and twenty years ago. 

On the roof of clapboards, dried 
Smoothly in the summer heat, 

Of the. hundred boys that tried, 
Never one could keep his feet. 

Near the door the cross-roads were, 
A stone's throw, perhaps, away, 

And to read the sign-board there, 
Made a pastime every day. 

He who turned the index down, 
So it pointed on the sign 

To the nearest market-town, 

Was, we thought, a painter fine : 

And the childish wonder rose, 
As we gazed with puzzled looks 



BALLADS AXD NARRATIVE POEMS. 



117 



On the letters, good as those 
Printed in our spelling-books. 

Near it was a well, — how deep ! 

With its bucket warped and dry, 
Broken curb, and leaning sweep. 

Ami a plum-tree growing by, 

Which, with low and tangly top, 
Made the grass so bright and cool, 

Travelers would sometimes stop, 
For a half-hour's rest — in school, 

n eye could keep the place 
Of the lesson then, — intent 
Each to con the stranger's face, 
And to see the road he went. 

ttered are we far and wide, — 
Careless, curious children then ; 
Wanderers some, and some have died ; 
Some, thank God, are honest men. 

But, as playmates, large or small, 

isy, thoughtful, or demure, 
I can see them, one and all. 
The great world in miniature. 

Common flowers, with common names, 
Filled the woods and meadows 
round : 

Dandelions with their flames 

Smothered flat against the ground ; 

Mullein stocks, with gray braids set 
Full of yellow : thistles speared ; 

Violets, purple near to jet ; 

Crowfoot, and the old-man's-beard. 

And along the dusty way, 

Thick as prints of naked feet, 

Iron-weeds and fennel gay 

Blossomed in the summer heat. 

Hedges of wild blackberries, 
Pears, and honey-locusts tall, 

Spice-wood, and " good apple-trees," 
Well enough we knew them all. 

But the ripest blackberries, 

Nor the mulleins topped with gold, 

Peach, nor honey-locust trees, 

Nor the flowers, when all are told, 

Pleased us like the cabin, near 

Which a silver river ran. 
And where lived, for many a year, 

Christopher, the crazy man. 



Hair as white as snow he had, 
Mixing with a beard that tell 

Down his breast ; it he were mad, 
Passed our little wits to tell. 

In his eyes' unfathomed blue 

Burned a ray so clear and bright, 

Oftentimes we said we knew 
It would shame the candlelight. 

Mystic was the life he led ; 

Picking herbs in secret nooks, — 
Finding, as the old folks said, 

" Tongues in trees and books in 
brooks/' 

Waking sometimes in the gloom 
Of the solemn middle night, 

He had seen his narrow room 
Full of angels dressed in white ; 

So he said in all good faith, 
And one day, with tearful eye, 

Told us that he heard old Death 
Sharpening his scythe, close by. 

Whether it were prophecy, 
Or a dream, I cannot say ; 

But good little Emily 

Died the evening of that day. 

In the woods, where up and down 
We had searched, and only seen 

Adder's - tongue, with dull, dead 
brown, 
Mottled with the heavy green ; 

May-apples, or wild birds sweet, 
Going through the shadows dim, 

Spirits, with white, noiseless feet, 
Walked, he said, and talked with 
him. 

" What is all the toiling for, 

And the spinning ? " he would 
say ; 

" See the lilies at my door, — 
Never dressed a queen as they. 

" He who gives the ravens food 
For our wants as well will care ; 

O my children ! He is good, — 
Better than your fathers are." 

So he lived from year to year, 
Never toiling, mystery-clad, — 

Spirits, if they did appear, 
Being all the friends he had. 



n8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Alternating seasons sped, 

And there fell no night so rough, 
But his cabin fire, he said, 

Made it light and warm enough. 

Soft and slow our steps would be, 

As the silver river ran, 
Days when we had been to see 

Christopher, the crazy man. 

Soft and slow, to number o'er 
The delights he said he had ; 

Wondering always, more and more, 
Whether he were wise or mad. 

On a hill-side next the sun, 

Where the school-boys quiet keep, 
And to seed the clovers run, 

He is lying, fast asleep. 

But at last (to Heaven be praise), 

Gabriel his bed will find, 
Giving love for lonely days, 

And for visions, his right mind. 

Sometimes, when I think about 
How he lived among the flowers, 

Gently going in and out. 

With no cares»nor fretful hours, — 

Of the deep serene of light, 

In his blue, unfathomed eyes, — 

Seems the childish fancy right, 
That could half believe him wise. 



THE FERRY OF GALLAWAY. 

In the stormy waters of Gallaway 
My boat had been idle the livelong 

day, 
Tossing and tumbling to and fro. 
For the wind was high and the tide was 

low. 

The tide was low and the wind was 

high, 
And we were heavy, my heart and I, 
For not a traveler all the day 
Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway. 

At set o' th' sun, the clouds out- 
spread 

Like wings of darkness overhead, 

When, out o' th' west, my eyes took 
heed 

Of a lady, riding at full speed. 



The hoof-strokes struck on the flinty 

hill 
Like silver ringing on silver, till 
I saw the veil in her fair hand float, 
And flutter a signal for my boat. 

The waves ran backward as if 'ware 
Of a presence more than mortal fair, 
And my little craft leaned down and 

lay 
With her side to th' sands o' th' Galla- 
way. 

" Haste, good boatman ! haste ! " she 

cried, 
" And row me over the other side ! " 
And she stript from her finger the 

shining ring, 
And gave it me for the ferrying. 

" Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go, 
For the wind is high and th' tide is low, 
And rocks like dragons lie in the 

w r ave, — 
Slip back on your finger the ring you 

gave ! " 

" Nay, nay ! for the rocks will be 

melted down. 
And the waters, they never will let me 

drown, 
And the wind a pilot will prove to 

thee, 
For my dying lover, he waits for me ! " 

Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur 
She put in my hand, but I answered 

her : 
"The wind is high and the tide is 

low, — 
I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " 

Her face grew deadly white with pain, 
And she took her champing steed by 

th' mane, 
And bent his neck to th' ribbon and 

spur 
That lay in my hand, — but I answered 

her : 

" Though you should proffer me twice 

and thrice 
Of ring and ribbon and steed, the 

price, — 
The leave of kissing your lily-like 

hand ! 
I never could row you safe to th' 

land." 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



119 



'•Then Cod have mercy ! " she faintly 

cried, 
•• For my lover is dying the other side ! 
O cruel, O cruellest Callaway. 
Be parted, and make me a path, I 

pray I " 

Of a sudden, the sun shone large and 

bright 
As it he were staying away the night. 
And the rain on the river fell as sweet 
the pitying tread of an angel's feet. 

And spanning the water from edge to 

edg 
A rainbow stretched like a golden 

brie 
And I put the rein in her hand so fair. 
And she sat in her saddle, th' queen 

o' th' air. 

And over the river, from edge to edge, 
She rode on the shifting and shimmer- 
ing bridge, 
And landing safe on the farther side, — 
"Love is thy conqueror, Death !" she 
cried. 



REVOLUTIONARY STORY. 

" Good mother, what quaint legend are 
you reading, 
In that old-fashioned book ? 
Beside your door I 've been this half- 
hour pleading 
All vainly for one look. 

11 About your chair the little birds fly 
bolder 
Than in the woods they fly, 
With heads dropt slantwise, as if o'er 
your shoulder 
They read as they went by ; 

u Each with his glossy collar ruffling 
double 
Around his neck so slim, 
Even as with that atmosphere of 
trouble. 
Through which our blessings swim. 

" Is it that years throw on us chillier 
shadows. 
The longer time they run, 
That, with your sad face fronting yon- 
der meadows, 
You creep into the sun ? 



" I 11 sit upon the ground and hear 
your story." 
Sadly she shook her head. 
And, pushing back the thin, white veil 
of glory 
'Twixt her and heaven, she said : 

M Ah ! wondering child, I knew not of 
your pleading : 
My thoughts were chained, indeed, 
Upon my book, and yet what you call 
reading 
I have no skill to read. 

"There was a time once when I had a 
lover ; 
Why look you in such doubt ? 
True, I am old now — ninety years and 
over : " 
A crumpled flower fell out 

From 'twixt the book-leaves. " Seventy 
years they 've pressed it : 
'T was like a living flame, 
When he that plucked it, by the pluck- 
ing blessed it ; " 
I knew the smile that came, 

And flickered on her lips in wannish 
splendor, 
Was lighted at that flower, 
For even yet its radiance, faint and 
tender, 
Reached to its primal hour. 

" God bless you ! seventy years since 
it was gathered ? " 
" Aye, I remember well ; " 
And in her old hand, palsy-struck, and 
withered, 
She held it up to smell. 

" And is it true, as poets say, good 
mother, 

That love can never die ? 
And that for all it gives unto another 

It grows the richer ? " " Aye, 

" The white wall-brier, from spring till 
summer closes, 
All the great world around, 
Hangs by its thorny arms to keep its 
roses 
From off the low, black ground : 

"And love is like it : sufferings but try 
it ; 
Death but evokes the might 



120 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



That, all, too mighty to be thwarted by it, 
Breaks through into the light." 

" Then frosty age may wrap about its 
bosom 
The light of fires long dead ? " 

Kissing the piece of dust she called a 
blossom, 
She shut the book, and said : 

" You see yon ash-tree with its thick 
leaves, blowing 
The blue side out ? (Great Power, 
Keep its head green ! ) My sweetheart, 
in the mowing 
Beneath it found my flower. 

" A mile off all that day. the shots were 
flying, 
And mothers, from the door, 
Looked for the sons, who, on their faces 
lying, 
Would come home never more. 

" Across the battle-field the dogs went 
whining ; 
I saw, from where I stood, 
Horses with quivering flanks, and 
strained eyes, shining 
Like thin skins full of blood. 

" Brave fellows we had then : there was 
my neighbor, — 
The British lines he saw ; 
Took his old scythe and ground it to a 
sabre, 
And mowed them down like straw ! 

"And there were women, then, of giant 
spirit, — 
Nay, though the blushes start, 
The garments their degenerate race in- 
herit 
Hang loose about the heart. 

" Where was I, child ? how is my story 
going ? " 
" Why, where by yonder tree 
With leaves so rough your sweetheart, 
in the mowing, 
Gathered your flower ! " " Ah me ! 

" My poor lad dreamed not of the red- 
coat devil, 

That, just for pastime, drew 
To his bright epaulet his musket level, 

And shot him through and through. 



" Beside him I was kneeling the next 
minute ; 
From the red grass he took 
The shattered hand up, and the flower 
was in it 
You saw within my book." 

" He died." " Then you have seen 
some stormy weather ? " 
" Aye, more of foul than fair ; 
And all the snows we should have 
shared together 
Have fallen on my hair." 

"And has your life been worth the liv- 
ing, mother, 
With all its sorrows ? " " Aye, 
I 'd live it o'er again, were there no 
other, 
For this one memory." 

I answered soft, — I felt the place was 
holy — 
One maxim stands approved : 
" They know the best of life, however 
lowly, 
Who ever have been loved." 



THE DAUGHTER. 

Alack, it is a dismal night — 
In gusts of thin and vapory light 
The moonshine overbloweth quite 
The fretful bosom of the storm, 
That beats against, but cannot harm 
The lady, whose chaste thoughts do 

charm 
Better than pious fast or prayer 
The evil spells and sprites of air — 
In sooth, were she in saintly care 
Safer she could not be than now 
With truth's white crown upon her 

brow — 
So sovereign, innocence, art thou. 
Just in the green top of a hedge 
That runs along a valley's edge 
One star has thrust a golden wedge, 
And all the sky beside is drear — 
It were no cowardice to fear 
If some belated traveler near, 
To visionary fancies born, 
Should see upon the moor, forlorn, 
With spiky thistle burs and thorn ; 
The lovely lady silent go, 
Not on a " palfrey white as snow," 
But with sad eyes and footsteps slow ; 
And softly leading by the hand 
An old man who has nearly spanned, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



121 



With his white hairs, life's latest sand. 
Hope in her faint heart newly thrills 
As down a barren reach of hills 
Before her rly two whippoorwills : 
But the my owl keeps op his wail — 
His feathers ruffled in the gale, 
Drowning almost their dulcet tale. 
Often the harmless flock she sees 
Lying white along the grassy leas. 
Like lily-bells weighed clown with bees. 
And now and then the moonlight snake 
Curls up its white folds, for her sake, 

ser within the poison brake. 
But still she keeps her lonesome way. 
Or if she pauses, 't is to say 
Some word of comfort, else to pray. 
What doth the gentle lady here 
Within a wood so dark and drear, 

hermit's lodge nor castle near? 
See in the distance robed and crowned 
A prince with all his chiefs around, 
And like sweet light o'er sombre ground 
A meek and lovely lady, there 
Proffering her earnest, piteous prayer 
For an okl man with silver hair. 
But what of evil he hath done, 
O'erclouding beauty's April sun, 
I know not — nor if lost or won, 
The lady's pleading, sweet and low — 
About her pilgrimage of woe, 
Is all that I shall ever know. 

THE MIGHT OF LOVE. 

"There is work, good man, for you 
to-day ! " 
So the wife of Jamie cried. 
" For a ship at Garl'ston, on Sol way, 
Is beached, and her coal 's to be got 
away 
At the ebbing time of tide." 

"And, lassie, would you have me start, 

And make for Solway sands ? 
You know that I, for my poor part, 
To help me. have nor horse nor cart — 
I have only just my hands ! " 

" But, Jamie, be not, till ye try, 
Of honest chances balked ; 
For, mind ye, man, I '11 prophesy 
That while the old ship 's high and dry 
Her master ; 11 have her calked." 

And far and near the men were pressed, 

As the wife saw in her dreams. 
"Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the 
best," 



As he went under with the rest 
To calk the open seams. 

And while the outward-flowing tide 

Moaned like a dirge of woe, 
The ship's mllte from the beach-belt 

cried : 
" Her hull is heeling toward the side 
Where the men are at work be- 
low ! " 

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed, 

Made for the Solway sands — 
Men heaving men like coals aside, 
For now it was the master cried : 

" Run for your lives, all hands ! " 

Like dead leaves in the sudden swell 

Of the storm, upon that shout, 
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell, 
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell 
mell 
The men came hurtling out ! 

Thank God, thank God, the peril's past ! 

" No ! no ! " with blanching lip, 
The master cries. " One man, the last, 
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast 

Betwixt the sands and the ship ! " 

" Back, back, all hands ! Get what you 
can — 

Or pick, or oar, or stave." 
This way and that they breathless ran, 
And came and fell to, every man, 

To dig him out of his grave ! 



The weight 



" Too slow ! too slow ! 
will kill ! 

Up make your hawsers fast ! " 
Then every man took hold with a will — 
A long pull and a strong pull — still 

With never a stir o' th' mast ! 

"Out with the cargo!" Then they go 
At it with might and main. 

" Back to the sands ! too slow r , too slow ! 

He 's dying, dying ! yet, heave ho ! 
Heave ho ! there, once again ! " 

And now on the beach at Garl'ston 
stood 
A woman whose pale brow wore 
Its love like a queenly crown ; and the 

blood 
Ran curdled and cold as she watched 
the flood 
That was racing in to the shore. 



122 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



On, on it trampled, stride by stride. 

It was death to stand and wait ; 
And all that were free threw picks aside, 
And came up dripping out o' th' tide, 

And left the doomed to his fate. 

But lo ! the great sea trembling stands ; 

Then, crawling under the ship, 
As if for the sake of the two white 

hands 
Reaching over the wild, wet sands, 

Slackened that terrible grip. 

" Come to me, Jamie ! God grants the 
way," 
She cries, " for lovers to meet." 
And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they 

say, 
And, wrapping him tenderly round with 
spray, 
Laid him dead at her feet. 



" THE GRACE WIFE OF KEITH." 

No whit is gained, do you say to me, 
In a hundred years, nor in two nor 
three, 
In wise things, nor in holy — 
No whit since Bacon trod his ways, 
And William Shakespeare wrote his 
plays ! 
Aye, aye, the world moves slowly. 

But here is a lesson, man, to heed ; 
I have marked the pages, open and 
read ; 

We are yet enough unloving, 
Given to evil and prone to fall, 
But the record will show you, after all, 

That still the world keeps moving. 

All in the times of the good King 
James — 

I have marked the deeds and their 
doers' names. 
And over my pencil drawing — 

One Geillis Duncan standeth the first 

For helping of " anie kinde sick" ac- 
cursed, 
And doomed, without trial, to 
" thrawi?ig" 

Read of her torturers given their scope 
Of wrenching and binding her head 
with a rope, 
Of taunting her word and her honor, 



And of searching her body sae pure 

and fair 
From the lady-white feet to the gouden 

hair 
For the wizard's mark upon her ! 

Of how through fair coaxings and ago- 
nies' dread 

She came to acknowledge whatever 
they said, . 

And, lastly, her shaken wits losing, 

To prattle from nonsense and blas- 
phemies wild 

To the silly entreaties and tears of a 
child, 
And then to the fatal accusing. 

First naming Euphemia Macalzean, 
A lord's young daughter, and fair as a 
queen ; 
Then Agnes, whose wisdom sur- 
passed her ; 
"Grace WyfTof Keith," so her sentence 

lies, 
" Adjudged at Holyrood under the eyes 
Of the King, her royal master." 

Oh, think of this Grace wife, fine and 

tall, 
With a witch's bridle tied to the wall ! 

Her peril and pain enhancing 
With owning the lie that on Hallowmas 

Eve 
She with a witch crew sailed in a sieve 
To Berwick Church, for a dancing ! 

Think of her owning, through brain- 
sick fright 
How Geillis a Jew's-harp played that 
night, 
And of Majesty sending speady 
Across the border and far away 
For that same Geillis to dance and play, 
Of infernal news made greedy ! 

Think of her true tongue made to tell 
How she had raised a dog from a well 

To conjure a Lady's daughters : 
And how she had gript him neck and 

skin, 
And, growling, thrust him down and in 

To his hiding under the waters ! 

How Rob the Rower, so stout and 

' brave, 
Helped her rifle a dead man's grave, 

And how, with enchantments arming, 
Husbands false she had put in chains, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



1*3 



And gone to the beds of women in 
pains 
And brought them through by charm- 
ing 

Think of her owning that out at sea 
The Devil had marked heron the knee. 
And think of the prelates round her 
Twitching backward their old gray 

hairs 
And bowing themselves to their awful 
prayers 
Before they took her and bound her ! 

The world moves ! Witch-fires, say 

what you will 
Are lighted no more on the Castle Hill 

By the breath of a crazy story ; 
Xor are men riven at horses' tails, 
Or done to death through pincered 
nails. 
In the name of God and his glory. 

The world moves on ! Say what you 

• can. 
No more may a maiden's love for a man, 

Into scorn and hatred turning. 
Wrap him in rosin stiff and stark, 
And roll him along like a log in its bark 

To the place of fiery burning. 

And such like things were done in the 

days 
When one Will Shakespeare wrote his 

plays ; 
And when Bacon thought, for a 

wonder : 
And when Luther had hurled, at the 

spirit's call. 
Inkstand, Bible, himself, and all 
At the head of the Papal thunder. 



JOHNNY RIGHT. 

Johnny Right, his hand was brown. 

And so was his honest, open face, 

For the sunshine kissed him up and 

down, 

But Johnny counted all for grace ; 

And when he looked in the glass at 

night 
He said that brown was as good as 
white ! 

A little farm our Johnny owned, 

Some pasture-fields, both green and 
good, 



A bit of pleasant garden ground, 

A meadow, and a strip of wood. 
" Enough for any man." said John, 
"To earn his livelihood upon ! " 

Two oxen, speckled red and white. 
And a cow that gave him a pail of 
milk, 

He combed and curried morn and night 
Until their coats were as soft as silk. 

l< Cattle on all the hills," said he, 

" Could give no more of joy to me." 

He never thought the world was wrong 
Because rough weather chanced a 
day ; 
" The night is always hedged along 

With daybreak roses, he would say ; 
He did not ask for manna, but said, 
" Give me but strength — I will get the 
bread ! " 

Kindly he took for good and all 

Whatever fortune chanced to bring, 
And he never wished that spring were 
fall, 
And he never wished that fall were 
spring ; 
But set the plough with a joy akin 
To the joy of putting the sickle in. 

He never stopped to sigh " Oho ! " 
Because of the ground he needs must 

till, 
For he knew right well that a man must 

sow 
Before he can reap, and he sowed 

with a will ; 
And still as he went to his rye-straw 

bed, 
" Work brings the sweetest of rest," he 

said. 

Johnny's house was little and low, 
And his fare was hard ; and that was 
why 

He used to say, with his cheeks aglow, 
That he must keep his heart up high : 

Aye, keep it high, and keep it light ! 

He used to say — wise Johnny Right ! 

He never fancied one was two ;. 

But according to his strength he 
planned, 
And oft to his Meggy would say he 
knew 
That gold was gold, and sand was 
sand ; 



124 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And that each was good and best in its 

place, 
For he counted everything for grace. 

Now Meggy Right was Meggy Wrong, 

For things with her went all awry ; 
She always found the day too long 
Or the day too short, and would 
mope and sigh ; 
For, somehow, the time and place that 

were, 
Were never the time and place for her ! 

" O Johnny, Johnny ! " she used to say, 
If she saw a cloud in the sky at 
morn, 
" There will be a hurricane to-day ; " 
Or, " The rain will come and drench 
the corn ! " 
And Johnny would answer with a smile, 
" Wait, dear Meggy, wait for a while ! " 

And often before an ear was lost, 

Or a single hope of the harvest gone, 

She would cry, " Suppose there should 

fall a frost, 

What should Ave do then, John, O 

John ! " 

And Johnny would answer, rubbing 

his thumbs, 
" Wait, dear Meggy, wait till it comes ! " 

But when she saw the first gray hair, 
Her hands together she wrung and 
wrung, 

And cried, in her wicked and weak de- 
spair, 
" Ah, for the day when we both were 
young ! " 

And Johnny answered, kissing her 
brow, 

" Then was then, Meg — now is 



now 



t » 



And when he spectacles put on, 

And read at ease the paper through, 
She whimpered, " Oh, hard-hearted 
John, 
It is n't the way you used to do ! " 
And Johnny, wiser than wiser men, 
Said, " Now is now, Meg — then was 
then ! " 

So night and day, with this and that, 
She gave a bitter to all the bliss, 

Now for Johnny to give her a hat, 
And now for Johnny to give her a 
kiss, 



Till, patience failing, he cried, " Peg, 



Pe<>- ' 

You 're enough to turn a man's head, 
Meg ! " 

Oh, then she fell into despair — 

No coaxing could her temper mend ; 

For her part now she did n't care 
How soon her sad life had an end. 

And Johnny, sneering, made reply, 

" Well, Meg, don't die before you 
die ! " 

Then foolish Meg began to scold, 

And call her Johnny ugly names ; 
She wished the little farm was sold, 
And that she had no household 
claims, 
So that she might go and starve or beg, 
And Johnny answered, " O Meg, 
Meg ! " 

Ah, yes, she did — she did n't care ! 

That were a living to prefer ; 
What had she left to save despair ? 

A man that did n't care for her ! 
Indeed, in truth she 'd rather go ! 
" Don't, Meg," says Johnny, " don't 
say so ! " 

She left his stockings all undarned, 
She set his supper for him cold ; 

And every day she said she yearned 
To have the hateful homestead sold. 

She could n't live, and would n't try ! 

John only answered with a sigh. 

Passing the tavern one cold night, 
Says Johnny, " I 've a mind to stop, 

It looks so cheery and so bright 
Within, and take a little drop, 

And then I '11 go straight home to 
Meg." 

There was the serpent in the egg. 



He stopped, alas, alas for John. 

That careless step foredoomed his 
fall. 
Next year the little farm was gone, — 

Corn fields and cattle, house and all ; 
And Meggy learned too late, too late, 
Her own self had evoked her fate. 



THE SETTLER'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 

In a patch of clearing, scarcely more 
Than his brawny double hands, 



V 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



125 



With woods behind and woods before, 

The Settler's cabin stands : 
A little, low, and lonesome shed, 
With a roof of clapboards overhead. 

Ave. low, so low the wind-warped eave 
Hangs close against the door ; 

You might almost stretch a bishop's 

sleeve 
From the rafter to the floor ; 
Anil the window is not too large, a 

whit. 
For a lady's veil to curtain it. 

The roof-tree's bent and knotty knees 

By the Settler's axe are braced, 
And the door-yard fence is three felled 
trees 
With their bare arms interlaced : 
And a grape-vine, shaggy and rough 

and red, 
Swings from the well-sweep's high, 
sharp head. 

And among the stubs, all charred and 
black, 
Away to the distant huts, 
Winds in and out the wagon-track, 

Cut full of zigzag ruts : 
And down and down to the sluggish 

pond, 
And through and up to the swamps 
beyond. 

And do you ask beneath such thatch 

What heart or hope may be ? 
Just pull the string of the wooden 
latch, 
And see what you shall see : 
A hearth-stone broad and warm and 

wide, 
With master and mistress either side. 

And 'twixt them, in the radiant glow, 
Prattling of Christmas joys, 

With faces in a shining row, 
Six children, girls and boys ; 

And in the cradle a head half-hid 
By the shaggy wolf-skin coverlid. 

For the baby sleeps in the shaded 
light 
As gently as a lamb, 
And two little stockings, scarlet bright, 

Are hanging 'gainst the jamb ; 
And the yellow cat lies all of a curl 
In the lap of a two-years' blue-eyed 
erirl. 



On the dresser, saved for weeks and 

weeks, 
A hamper of apples stands. 
And some are red as the children's 
cheeks, 
And some are brown as their hands ; 
For cakes and apples must stead, you 

see, 
The rich man's costlier Christmas-tree. 

A clock that looks like a skeleton, 
From the corner ticks out bold ; 
And that never was such a clock to 
run 
You would hardly need be told, 
If you were to see the glances proud 
Drawn toward it when it strikes so 
loud. 

The Settler's rifle, bright and brown, 

Hangs high on the rafter-hooks. 
And swinging a hand's breadth lower 
down 
Is a modest shelf of books ; 
Bible and Hymn-book, thumbed all 

through, 
" Baxter's Call,'' and a novel or two. 

"Peter Wilkins," "The Bloody 
Hand," 
" The Sailor's Bride and Bark," 
"Jerusalem and the Holy Land," 

"The Travels of Lewis and Clarke ; " 
Some tracts : among them, " The Milk- 
maid's Fall," 
" Pleasure Punished," and " Death at 
a Ball." 

A branch of sumach, shining bright, 

And a stag-horn, deck the wall, 
With a string of birds'-eggs, blue and 
white, 
Beneath. But after all, 
You will say the six little heads in a 

row 
By the hearth-stone make the prettiest 
show. 

The boldest urchin dares not stir ; 

But each heart, be sure, rebels 
As the father taps on the newspaper 

With his brass-bowed spectacles ; 
And knitting-needle with needle clicks 
As the mother waits for the politics. 

He has rubbed the glass and rubbed 
the bow, 
And now is a fearful pause : 



126 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



" Come, Molly ! " he says, " come Sue, 

come Joe, 

And I '11 tell you of Santa Claus ! " 

How the faces shine with glad surprise, 

As if the souls looked out of the eyes. 

In a trice the dozen ruddy legs 

Are bare ; and speckled and brown 
And blue and gray, from the wall-side 

Peg 
The stockings dangle down ; 
And the baby with wondering eyes, 
looks out 
To see what the clatter is all about. 

" And what will Santa Claus bring ? " 
they tease, 
" And, say, is he tall and fair ? " 
While the younger climb the good 
man's knees, 
And the elder scale his chair ; 
And the mother jogs the cradle, and 

tries 
The charm of the dear old lullabies. 

So happily the hours fly past, 

'T is pity to have them o'er ; 
But the rusty weights of the clock, at 
last 
Are dragging near the floor ; 
And the knitting-needles, one and all, 
Are stuck in the round, red knitting- 
ball. 

Now, all of a sudden the father twirls 

The empty apple-plate ; 
" Old Santa Claus don't like his girls 

And boys to be up so late ! " 
He says, " And I '11 warrant our star- 
faced cow, 
He 's waiting astride o' the chimney 
now." 

Down the back of his chair they slide, 
They slide clown arm and knee : 

" If Santa Claus is indeed outside, 
He sha'n't be kept for me ! " 

Cry one and all ; and away they go, 

Hurrying, flurrying, six in a row. 

In the mother's eyes are happy tears 

As she sees them flutter away ; 
" My man," she says, " it is sixteen 
years 
Since our blessed wedding-day ; 
And I would n't think it but just a year 
If it was n't for all these children 
here." 



And then they talk of what they will 
do 
As the years shall come and go ; 
Of schooling for little Molly and Sue, 

And of land for John and Joe ; 
And Dick is so wise, and Dolly so 

fair, 
"They," says the mother, "will have 
luck to spare ! " 

" Aye, aye, good wife, that 's clear, 
that 's clear ! " 
Then, with eyes on the cradle bent, 
" And what if he in the wolf-skin 
here 
Turned out to be President ? 
Just think ! Oh, would n't it be 

fine, — 
Such fortune for your boy and mine ! " 

She stopped — her heart with hope 
elate — 
And kissed the golden head : 
Then, with the brawny hand of her 
mate 
Folded in hers, she said : 
" Walls as narrow, and a roof as low, 
Have sheltered a President, you 
know." 

And then they said they would work 
and wait, 
The good, sweet-hearted pair — 
You must have pulled the latch-string 
straight, 
Had you in truth been there, 
Feeling that you were not by leave 
At the Settler's hearth that Christmas 
Eve. 



THE OLD STORY. 

The waiting-women wait at her feet, 

And the day is fading into the night, 
And close at her pillow, and round and 
sweet, 
The red rose burns like a lamp 
alight, 
And under and over the gray mists 
fold; 
And down and down from the mossy- 
eaves, 
And down from the sycamore's long 
wild leaves 
The slow rain droppeth so cold, so 
cold. 



BA L L A 1 >S AND A '.-/ RRA 7 '/ / '£ 1 X >/:'. MS. 



127 



Ah ! never had sleeper a sleep so 
fair ; 
And the waiting-women that weep 
around, 

Have taken the combs from her golden 
hair, 
And it slideth over her face to the 
ground. 
They have hidden the light from her 
lovely eyes ; 
And down from the eaves where the 

mosses grow 
The rain is dripping so slow, so 
slow. 
And the night wind cries and cries and 
cri, 

From her hand they have taken the 
shining ring, 
Thev have brought the linen her 
shroud to make : 
Oh, the lark she was never so loath to 
sin. 
And the morn she was never so loath 
to awake ! 
And at their sewing they hear the 
rain, — 
Drip-drop, drip-drop over the eaves, 
And drip-drop over the sycamore 
leaves. 
As if there would never be sunshine 
again. 

The mourning train to the grave have 
gone, 
And the waiting women are here and 
are there, 
With birds at the windows, and gleams 
of the sun, 
Making the chamber of death to be 
fair. 
And under and over the mist unlaps. 
And ruby and amethyst burn through 

the gray, 
And driest bushes grow green with 
spray, 
And the dimpled water its glad hands 
claps. 

The leaves of the sycamore dance and 
wave, 
And the mourners put off the mourn- 
ing shows : 
And over the pathway down to the 
grave 
The long grass blows and blows and 
blows. 
And every drip-drop rounds to a flower, 



And love in the heart of the young 

man springs, 
And the hands of the maidens shine 
'with rings, 
As if all life were a festival hour. 



BALDER'S WIFE. 

Her casement like a watchful eye 

From the face of the wall looks 
down. 
Lashed round with ivy vines so dry, 

And with ivy leaves so brown. 
Her golden head in her lily hand 

Like a star in the spray o' th' sea, 
And wearily rocking to and fro, 
She sings so sweet and she sings so 
low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may, 

Never so light and never so gay, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

Like some bright honey-hearted rose 

That the wild wind rudely mocks, 
She blooms from the dawn to the day's 
sweet close 

Hemmed in with a world of rocks. 
The livelong night she doth not stir, 

But keeps at her casement lorn, 
And the skirts of the darkness shine 
with her 

As they shine with the light 0' the 
morn 
And all who pass may hear her lay, 

But let it be what tune it may, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 

And there, within that one-eyed tower, 

Lashed round with the ivy brown. 
She droops like some unpitied flower 

That the rain-fall washes down : 
The damp o' th' dew in her golden 

. hair, 

Her cheek like the spray o' th' 
sea, 
And wearily rocking to and fro 
She sings so sweet and she sings so 
low 

To the little babe on her knee. 
But let her sing what tune she may, 

Never so glad and never so gay, 
It slips and slides and dies away 

To the moan of the willow water. 



128 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



AT REHEARSAL. 

Cousin Kit MacDonald, 

I 've been all the day among 
The places and the faces 

That we knew when we were young ; 

And, like a hope that shineth down 
The shadow of its fears, 

1 found this bit of color on 
The groundwork of the years. 

So with words I tried to paint it, 
All so merry and so bright — 

And here, my Kit MacDonald, 
Is the picture light on light. 

It was night — the cows were stabled, 
And the sheep were in their fold, 

And our garret had a double roof — 
Pearl all across the gold. 

The winds were gay as dancers — 
We could hear them waltz and whirl 

Above the roof of yellow pine, 
And the other roof of pearl. 

We had gathered sticks from the snow- 
drift, 

And now that the fire was lit, 
We made a ring about the hearth 

And watched for you, dear Kit. 

We planned our pleasant pastimes, 
But never a game begun — 

For Cousin Kit was the leader 
Of all the frolic and fun. 

With moss and with bark, for his sake, 
The fire we strove to mend — 

For the fore-stick, blazing at middle, 
Was frosty at either end ; 

But after all of the blowing 

Till our cheeks were puffed and red, 
No warm glow lighted the umber 

Of the rafters overhead ; 

And after all of the mending, 
We could not choose but see 

That the little low, square window 
Was as dark as dark could be. 

The chill crept in from our fingers 
Till our hearts grew fairly numb — 

Oh, what if he should n't see the light, 
And what if he should n't come ! 



Then pale-cheeked little Annie, 
With a hand behind her ear 

Slipt out of the ring and listened 
To learn if his step were near ; 

And Philip followed, striding 
Through the garret to and fro : — 

To show us that our Cousin Kit 
Was marching through the snow ; 

While Rose stood all a-tiptoe, 
With face to the window pressed, 

To spy him, haply, over the hill, 
And tell the news to the rest. 

And at last there was shout and laugh- 
ter, 

And the watching all was done — 
For Kit came limping and whimpering, 

And the playing was begun. 

" A poor old man, good neighbors, 
Who has nearly lost his sight, 

Has come." he said, " to eat your bread, 
And lodge by your fire to-night % 

" I have no wife nor children, 
And the night is bitter cold ; 

And you see (he showed the snow on 
his hair) — 
You see I am very old ! " 

" We have seen your face too often, 

Old Mr. Kit," we said ; 
" How comes it that you 're houseless — 

And why are you starved for bread ? 

" Because you were thriftless and lazy, 
And would not plough nor sow ; 

And because you drank at the tavern — 
Ah ! that is why, you know ! 

" We don't give beggars lodging, 
And we want our fire and bread ; 

And so good-day, and go your way, 
Old Mr. Kit," we said. 

Then showing his ragged jacket, 

He said that his money was spent — 

And said he was old, and the night was 
cold, 
And with body doubly bent 

He reached his empty hat to us, 
And then he wiped his eye, 

And said he had n't a friend in the 
world 
That would give him room to die. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



129 



u But it wasn't for you," we answered, 

•• That our hearth to-night was lit." 
And so we turned him out o' the 

house — 

Kit, my Cousin Kit ! 



As I sit here painting over 

The night, and the tire, and the snow, 
And all your boyish make-believe 

In that garret rude and low, 

My heart is broken within me. 
For my love must needs allow 

That you were at the rehearsal then 
Of the part you are playing now* 



THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 

Peace ! for my brain is on the rack ! 
Peace of your idle prattling, John ! 
Ere peep o' daylight he was gone : 
And my thoughts" they run as wild and 

black 
As the clouds in the sky, from fear to 

fear. 
Mother o' mercy ! would he were 

here — 
Oh ! would that he only were safely 

here — 
Would that I knew he would ever come 

back ! 
Yet surely he will come anon ; 
Let 's see — the clock is almost on 
The stroke o' ten. Even ere it strike, 
His hand will be at the latch belike. 
Set up his chair in the corner, John, 
Add a fresh log, and stir the coals : 
We can afford it, I reckon, yet. 
The night is chilly and wild and wet, 
And all the fishers' wives, poor souls, 
Must watch and wait ! There are 

otherwhere 
Burdens heavy as mine to bear, 
Though not so bitter. It was my fret 
And worry that sent him to his boat. 
Here, Johnny, come kneel down by 

me, 
And pray the best man keep afloat 
That ever trusted his life at sea ! 
So : let your pretty head be bowed, 
Like a stricken flower, upon my knee ; 
And when you come to the sweet, 

sweet word 
Of best, my little one — my bird, 
Say it over twice, and say it loud. 
9 



I do not dare to lift my eyes 
To our meek Master in the skies : 
For it was my wicked pride, alas ! 
That brought me to the heavy pass 
Of weary waiting and listening sad 
To the winds as they drearily drift and 

drive. 
So pray in your praying for me, my lad ! 
Oh ! it" he were there in the chair you 

set, 
With never a silvery fish in his net, 
I 'd be the happiest woman alive ! 

But he will come ere long, I know : 
Here, Johnny, put your hand in mine, 
And climb up to my shoulder — so: 
Upon the cupboard's highest shelf 
You '11 see a bottle of good old wine — 
I pressed the berry-juice myself. 
Ah ! how it sparkles in the light, 
To make us loath to break the seal ; 
But though its warm red life could feel, 
We would not spare it — not to-night ! 

Another hour ! and he comes not yet : 
And I hear the long waves wash the 

beach, 
With the moan of a drowning man in 

each, 
And the star of hope is near to set. 
The proudest lady in all the land 
That sits in her chamber fine and high, 
That sits in her chamber large and 

grand, 
I would not envy to-night — not I — 
If I had his cold wet locks in my hand, 
To make them warm and to make them 

dry, 
And to comb them with my fingers free 
From the clinging sea-weed and the 

sand 
Washing over them, it may be. 
Ah ! how should I envy the lady fair 
With white arms hidden in folds of 

lace, 
If my dear old fisher were sitting there, 
His pipe in his hand, and his sun- 
brown face 
Turning this way and that to me, 
As I broiled the salmon and steeped 

the tea. 
O empty heart ! and O empty chair ! 
My boy, my Johnny, say over your 

prayer ; 
And straight to the words I told you 

keep, 
Till you pass the best man out on the 

deep, 



130 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And then say this : If thou grantest, 

Lord, 
That he come back alive, and with fish 

in his net, 
The church shall have them for her 

reward, 
And we, of our thankfulness, will set 
A day for fasting and scourge and pain. 
Hark ! hark to the crazy winds again ! 
The tide is high as high can be, 
The waters are boiling over the bar, 
And drawing under them near and far 
The low black land. Ah me ! ah me ! 
I can only think of the mad, mad sea ; 
I can only think, and think, and think 
How quickly a foundered boat would 

sink, 
And how soon the stoutest arms would 

fail. 
'T is all of my worry and all of my fret, 
For I brewed the bitter draught I 

drink : 
I teased for a foolish, flimsy veil. 
And teased and teased for a spangled 

gown, 
And to have a holiday in the town. 
There was only just one way, one way, 
And he mendgd his net and trimmed 

his sail, 
And trusted his life to the pitiless sea, 
My dear old fisher, for love of me, 
When a better wife would have said 

him nay ; 
And so my folly forlorn I bewail. 
Hark! Midnight! All the hearth is 

dim 
And cold ; but sure we need not strive 
To keep it warm and bright for him — 
He never will come back alive. 
I hear the creak of masts a-strain, 
As the mad winds rush madly on. 
Kneel down and say yet once again 
The prayer I told you a while ago ; 
And be not loud, my boy, my John — 
Nay, it befits us to be low — 
Nor yet so straight to the wording 

keep, 
As I did give you charge before : 
The best man ever was on the deep 
Pray for ; and say the best twice o'er. 
But when through our blessed Re- 
deemer you say 
The sweet supplication for him that 's 

away, 
That saints bring him back to us saved 

from ill, 
Add this to the Father : If so be Thy 

will. 



And I, lest again my temptation assail, 
Will yield to my chast'ning, and cover 

up head 
With blackness of darkness, instead of 

the veil 
I pined for in worry and pined for in 

fret, 
Till my good man was fain to be gone 

with his net 
Where but the winds scolded. Now 

get from your knees, 
For I, from the depths of contrition, 

have said 
The Amen before you. And we '11 to 

the seas : 
Belike some kind wave may be wash- 
ing ashore, 
With coils of rope and salt sea-weed, 

some sign 
To be as a letter sent out of the brine 
To tell us the last news — to say if he 

struck 
On the rocks and went down — but 

hush ! breathe not, my lad. 

sweet Lord of Mercy ! my brain is 

gone mad ! 
Or that was the tune that he whistles 

for luck ! 
Run ! run to the door ! open wide — 

wider yet ! 
He is there! — he is here! and my 

arms are outspread 

1 am clasping and kissing his hands 

rough and brown. 
Are you living ? or are you the ghost 

of my dead ? 
'Tis all of my worry and all of my 

fret ; 
Ashamed in his bosom I hung down 

my head. 
He has been with his fishes to sell in 

the town, 
For I see, snugly wrapt in the folds of 

his net, 
The hindering veil and the spangled 

new gown. 



MAID AND MAN. 

All in the gay and golden weather, 
Two fair travelers, maid and man, 

Sailed in a birchen boat together, 
And sailed the way that the river 
ran : 

The sun was low, not set, and the west 

Was colored like a robin's breast. 



AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 

THE DOUBLE SKEIN. 



m 



The moon was moving sweetly o'er 
them. 

And her shadow, in the waves afloat, 
Moved softly on and on before them 
Like a silver swan, that drew their 
boat : 
And they were lovers, and well con- 
tent. 
Sailing the way the river went. 

And these two saw in her grassy bower 
As they -ailed the way the river run, 

A little, modest, slim-necked flower 
Nodding and nodding up to the sun, 
they made about her a little song 

And sung it as they sailed along : 

•• Pull down the grass about your 
bosom, 

Nor look at the sun in the royal 
sky, 
'Tis dangerous, dangerous, little blos- 
som. 
You are so low, and he is so high — 
'Tis dangerous nodding up to him. 
He is so bright, and you are so dim ! " 

Sweetly over, and sadly under, 

They turned the tune as they sailed 
along. 
And they did not see the cloud, for a 
wonder, 
Break in the water, the shape of the 
swan : 
Nor yet, for a wonder, see at all 
The river narrowing toward the fall. 

"Be warned, my beauty — 'tis not the 
fashion 
Of the king to wed with the waiting- 
maid — 

Make not from sleep his fiery passion. 
But turn your red cheek into the 
shade — 

The clew is a-tremble to kiss your 
eyes — 

And there is but danger in the skies ! " 

Close on the precipice rang the ditty, 
But they looked behind them, and 

not before, 
And went down singing their doleful 

pity 
About the blossom safe on the 

shore — 
" There is clanger, danger ! frail one, 

list:" 
Backward whirled in the whirling mist. 



Up ere the throstle is out of the thorn. 
Or the east a-blush with a rosy 
break. 
For she wakens earlier now of a morn ; 
Earlier now than she used to wake, 
Such troublous moanings the sea- 
waves make. 

She leans to her distaff a weary brow. 
And her cheeks seem ready the flax 
to burn. 
And the wheel in her hand turns 
heavier now ; 
Heavier now than it used to turn, 
When strong hands helped her the 
bread to earn. 

She lists to the school-boy's laugh and 
shout, 
And her eyes have the old expectant 
gleam ; 
And she draws the fine thread out and 
out. 
Till it drags her back from her ten- 

der dream. 
And wide and homeless the world 
doth seem. 

Over the fields to the sands so brown. 
And over the sands to the restless 
tides 
She looks, and her heart tilts up and 
clown : 
Up and down with the boat as it 

rides, 
And she cries, " God steady the 
hand that guides ! " 

She watches the lights from the sea- 
cliffs go, 

Bedazed with a wonder of vague sur- 
prise, 
For the sun seems now to be always 
low, 

And never to rise as he used to 
rise — 

The gracious glory of land and 
skies. 

She shrinks from the pattered plash of 

the rain, 
For it taps not now as it used to 

do, 
Like a tearful Spirit of Love at the 

pane, 



132 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the gray mist sweeping across 

the blue 
Never so lightly, chills her through. 

So spins she ever a double skein, 
And the thread on her finger all eyes 
may see, 
But the other is spun in her whirling 
brain 
And out of the sea-fog over the sea, 
For still with its treasure the heart 
will be. 



SELFISH SORROW. 

The house lay snug as a robin's nest 

Beneath its sheltering tree, 
And a field of flowers was toward the 
west, 
And toward the east the sea, 
Where a belt of weedy and wet black 

sand 
Was always pushing in to the land, 

And with her face away from the sun 
And towarS the sea so wild, 

The grandam sat, and spun and spun, 
And never heeded the child, 

So wistfully waiting beside her chair, 

More than she heeded the bird of the 
air. 

Fret and fret, and spin and spin, 
With her face the way of the sea : 

And whether the tide were out or in, 
A-sighing, "Woe is me ! " 

In spite of the waiting and wistful eyes 

Pleading sO sweetly against the sighs. 

And spin, spin, and fret, fret, 

And at last the day was done, 
And the light of the fire went out and 
met 
The light o' the setting sun. 
" It will be a stormy night — ah me ! " 
Sighed the grandam, looking at the 
sea. 

" Oh, no, it is n't a-going to rain ! " 
Cries the dove-eyed little girl, 

Pressing her cheek to the window- 
pane 
And pulling her hair out of curl. 

But the grandam answered with a sigh, 

Just as she answered the cricket's cry, 



" If it rains, let it rain ; we shall not 

drown ! " 
Says the child, so glad and gay ; 
" The leaves of the aspen are blowing 

down ; 
A sign of fair weather, they say ! " 
And the grandam moaned, as if the 

sea 
Were beating her life out, " Woe is 

me ! " 

The heart of the dove-eyed little girl 

Began in her throat to rise, 
And she says, pulling golden curl upon 
curl 
All over her face and her eyes. 
" I wish we were out of sight of the 

sea ! " 
And the grandam answered, " Woe is 
me ! " 

The sun in a sudden darkness slid, 

The winds began to plain, 
And all the flowery field was hid 
With the cold gray mist and the 
rain. 
Then knelt the child on the hearth so 

low, 
And blew the embers all aglow. 

On one small hand so lily white 
She propped her golden head, 
And lying along the rosy light 

She took her book and read : 
And the grandam heard her laughter 

low, 
As she rocked in the shadows to and 
fro. 

At length she put her spectacles on 
And drew the book to her knee : 
" And does it tell," she said, " about 
John, 
My lad, who was lost at sea ? " 
" Why, no," says the child, turning 

face about, 
"'Tis a fairy tale: shall I read it 
out ? " 

The grandam lowlier bent upon 

The page as it lay on her knee : 
" No, not if it does n't tell about John," 

She says, "who was lost at sea." 
And the little girl, with a saddened 

face, 
Shut her hair in the leaves to keep the 
place. 



BA I. LAI >S AND A A A'A'.-l J 7 / '£ 1 V E. )/S. 



133 



And climbing up and over the chair, 
The way that her sweet heart led, 
She put one arm. SO round and fair. 
Like a crown, on the old gray head. 
>. child," says the grandam — keep- 
ing on 
With her thoughts — " your book 
does n't tell about John 

•• No, ma'am, it tells oi a fairy old 

Who lived in a daffodil bell. 
And who had a heart so hard and 
colli 
That she kept the dews to sell : 
And when a butterfly wanted a drink, 
How much did she ask him. do vou 
think?" 

" O foolish child. I cannot tell, 

May be a crown, or 
" But'the fairy lived in a daffodil bell, 
And could n't hoard crowns, you 
know ! " 
And the grandam answered — her 

thought joined on 
To the old thought — " Not a word 
about John 

M But grandam " — " Nay, for pity's 
sake 
Don't vex me about your crown, 
But say if the ribs of a ship should 
break 
And the ship's crew all go down 
Of a night like this, how long it would 
take 
For a strong-limbed lad to drown ! " 

" But. grandam," — Nay. have done," 
she said, 

u With your fairy and her crown ! 
Besides, your arm upon my head 

Is heavy : get you down ! " 
u O ma'am, I m so sorry to give you a 



pain 



1 " 



And the child kissed the wrinkled face 
time and again. 

And then she told the story through 

Of the fairy of the dell, 
Who sold God's blessed gift of the dew 

When it was n't hers to sell, 
And who shut the sweet light all away 
With her thick black wings, and pined 
all day. 

And how at last God struck her blind. 
The grandam wiped a tear, 



And then she said, " I should n't mind 

If you read to me now, my dear ! " 
Ami the little girl, with a wondering 

look. 
Slipped her golden hair from the leaves 

of the book. 

As the grandam pulled her down to 
her knee. 
And pressed her close in her arm, 
And kissing her, said, " Run out and 
see 
If there is n't a lull in the storm ! 
I think the moon, or at least some star, 
Must shine, and the wind grows faint 
and far." 

Next clay again the grandam spun, 

And oh, how sweet were the hours ! 
For she sat at the window toward the 
sun, 
And next the field of flowers, 
And never looked at the long gray sea, 
Nor sighed for her lad that was lost, 
" Ah me ! " 



THE EDGE OF DOOM. 



and 



Heart - sick, homeless, weak 
weary, 

On the edge of doom she stands, 
Fighting back the wily Tempter 

With her trembling woman's hands. 
On her lip a moan of pleading, 

In her eyes a look of pain, 
Men and women, men and women, 

Shall her cry go up in vain ? 

On the edge of doom and darkness — 

Darker, deeper than the grave — 
Off with pride, that devil's virtue ! 

While there yet is time to save, 
Clinging for her life, and shrinking 

Lower, lower from your frown : 
Men and women, men and women, 

Will you, can you, crowd her down ? 

On that head, so early faded, 

Pitiless the rains have beat ; 
Famine down the pavements tracked 
her 

By her bruised and bleeding feet. 
Through the years, sweet old Naomi, 

Lead her in the gleaners' way ; 
Boaz, oh, command your young men 

To reproach her not, I pray. 



134 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Face to face with shame and insult 
Since she drew her baby-breath, 
Were it strange to find her knock- 



ing 



par- 



sin 



At the cruel door of death ? 
Were it strange if she should 
ley 

With the great arch-fiend of 
Open wide, O gates of mercy, 

Wider, wider ! — let her in ! 



Ah ! my proud and scornful lady, 

Lapped in laces fair and fine, 
But for God's good grace and mercy 

Such a fate as hers were thine. 
Therefore, breaking combs of honey, 

Breaking loaves of snowy bread, 
If she ask a crumb, I charge you 

Give her not a stone instead. 

Never lullaby, sung softly, 

Made her silken cradle stir ; 
Never ring of gay young playmates 

Opened to make room for her ! 
Therefore, winds, sing up your sweet- 
est, 

Rocking lightly on the leaves ; 
And, O reapers, careless reapers, 

Let her gle^.n among your sheaves ! 

Never mother, by her pillow, 

Knelt and taught her how to say, 
Lead me not into temptation, 

Give me daily bread this day. 
Therefore, reapers, while the corn- 
stalks 

To your shining sickles lean, 
Drop, oh drop some golden handfuls — 

Let her freely come and glean ! 

Never mellow furrows crumbled 
Softly to her childish tread — 
She but sowed in stony places, 

And the seed is choked and dead. 
Therefore, let her rest among you 

When the sunbeams fiercely shine — 
Barley reapers, let her with you 

Dip her morsel in the wine ! 

And entreat her not to leave you 

When the harvest week is o'er, 
Nor depart from following after, 

Even to the threshing-floor. 
But when stars through fields of 
shadow 

Shepherd in the evening gray, 
Fill her veil with beaten measures, 

Send her empty not away. 



Then the city round about her, 

As she moveth by, shall stir 
As it moved to meet Naomi 

Home from famine — yea, for her ! 
And the Lord, whose name is Mercy, 

Steadfast by your deed shall stand, 
And shall make her even as Rachel, 

Even as Leah, to the land. 



THE CHOPPER'S CHILD. 

A STORY FOR THANKSGIVING DAY. 

The smoke of the Indian Summer 

Darkened and doubled the rills, 
And the ripe corn, like a sunset, 

Shimmered along the hills : 
Like a gracious glowing sunset, 

Interlaced with the rainbow light 
Of vanishing wings a-trailing 

And trembling out of sight ; 

As, with the brier-buds gleaming 

In her darling, dimpled hands, 
Toddling slow adown the sheep-paths 

Of the yellow stubble-lands — 
Her sweet eyes full of the shadows 

Of the woodland, darkly brown — • 
Came the chopper's little daughter, 

In her simple hood and gown. 

Behind her streamed the splendors 

Of the oaks and elms so grand, 
Before her gleamed the gardens 

Of the rich man of the land ; 
Gardens about whose gateways 

The gloomy ivy swayed, 
Setting all her heart a-tremble 

As she struck within their shade. 

Now the chopper's lowly cabin 

It lay nestled in the wood, 
And the dwelling of the rich man 

By the open highway stood, 
With its pleasant porches facing 

All against the morning hills, 
And each separate window shining 

Like a bed of daffodils. 

Up above the tallest poplars 

In its stateliness it rose, 
With its carved and curious gables, 

And its marble porticoes : 
But she did not see the grandeur, 

And she thought her father's oaks 
Were finer than the cedars 

Clipt so close along the walks. 



BALLADS AXD NARRATIVE POEMS. 



135 



So, in that full confiding 

The unworldly only know. 
Through the gateway, down the garden, 

l"|) the marble portico. 
Her bare feet brown as bees' wings, 

And her hands of brier-buds full, 
On, along the fleecy crimson 

Of the carpets of dyed wool. 

With a modest glance uplifted 

Through the lashes drooping down, 
Came the chopper's little daughter, 

In her simple hood and gown ; 
Still and steady, like a shadow 

Sliding inward from the wood, 
Till before the lady-mistress 

Of the house, at last, she stood. 

Oh, as sweet as summer sunshine 

Was that lady-dame to see, 
With the chopper's little daughter, 

Like a shadow at her knee ! 
Oh. green as leaves of clover 

Were the broideries of her train, 
And her hand it shone with jewels 

Like a lily with the rain. 

And the priest before the altar, 

As she swam along the aisle, 
Reading out the sacred lesson. 

Read it consciously, the while ; 
The long roll of the organ 

Drew across a silken stir, 
And when he named a saint, it was 

As if he named but her. 

But the chopper's child undazzled 

In her lady-presence stood — 
(She was born amid the spendors 

Of the glorious autumn wood) — 
And so sweetly and serenely 

Met the cold and careless face, 
Her own alive with blushes, 

E'en as one who gives a grace ; 
• 
As she said, the accents falling 

In a pretty, childish way : 
"To-morrow, then to-morrow 

Will have brought Thanksgiving day: 
And my mother will be happy. 

And be honored, so she said, 
To have the landlord's lady 

Taste her"honey and her bread." 

Then slowly spake the lady, 
As disdainfully she smiled, 

" Live you not in yonder cabin ? 
Are you not the chopper's child ? 



And your foolish mother bids me 
To Thanksgiving, do you say? 

What is it, little starveling, 

That you give your thanks for, 
pray?" 

One bashful moment's silence — 

Then hushing up her pain, 
And sweetness growing out of it 

As the rose does out of rain — 
She stript the woolen kerchief 

From off her shining head. 
As one might strip the outer husk 

From the golden ear. and said : 

" What have we to give thanks for ? 

Why, just for daily bread ! " 
And then, with all her little pride 

A-blushing out so red — 
" Perhaps, too, that the sunshine 

Can come and lie on our floor, 
With none of your icy columns 

To shut it from the' door ! " 

" What have we to give thanks for ? " 
And a smile illumed her tears, 
As a star the broken vapors, 

When it suddenly appears ; 
And she answered, all her bosom 

Throbbing up and clown so fast : 
" Because my poor sick brother 

Is asleep at last, at last. 

"Asleep beneath the daisies : 

But when the drenching rain 
Has put them out, we know the dew 

Will light them up again ; 
And we make and keep Thanksgiving 

With the best the house affords, 
Since, if we live, or if we die, 

We know we are the Lord's : 

" That out his hands of mercy 

Not the least of us can fall ; 
But we have ten thousand blessings, 

And I cannot name them all ! 
Oh, see them yourself, good madam — 

I will come and show you the way — 
After the morrow, the morrow again 

Will be the great, glad day." 

And, tucking up her tresses 
In the kerchief of gray wool, 

Where they gleamed like golden wood- 
lights 
In the autumn mists so dull, 

She crossed the crimson carpets. 
With her rose-buds in her hands, 



136 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And, climbing up the sheep-paths 
Of the yellow stubble-lands, 

Passed the marsh wherein the starlings 

Shut so close their horny bills, 
And lighted with her loveliness 

The gateway of the hills. 
Oh, the eagle has the sunshine, 

And his way is grand and still ; 
But the lark can turn the cloud into 

A temple when she will ! 

That evening, when the corn fields 

Had lost the rainbow light 
Of vanishing wings a-trailing 

And trembling out of sight, 
Apart from her great possessions 

And from all the world apart, 
Knelt the lady-wife and mistress 

Of the rich man's house and heart. 

Knelt she, all her spirit broken, 

And the shame she could not speak, 
Burning out upon the darkness 

From the fires upon her cheek ; 
And prayed the Lord of the harvest 

To make her meek and mild, 
And as faithful in Thanksgiving 

As the chopper's little child. 



THE DEAD-HOUSE. 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house, 

She cometh — a maiden fair — 
By the feet so slight and slender, 
By the hand so white and tender, 
And by the silken and shining lengths 
Of the girlish, golden hair, 

Dragging under and over 
The arms of the men that bear. 

Oh ! make of your pity a cover, 
And softly, silently bear : 

Perhaps for the sake of a lover, 
Loved all too well, she is there ! 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house ! 
So lovely and so lorn — 
Straighten the tangled tresses, 
They have known a mother's kisses, 
And hide with their shining veil of 

grace 
The sightless eyes and the pale, sad 
face 
From men and women's scorn. 
Aye, veil the poor face over, 
And softly, silently bear : 



Perhaps for the sake of a lover, 
Loved all too well, she is there. 

In the dead of night to the Dead-house ! 
Bear her in from the street : 
The watch at his watching found 

her — 
Ah ! say it low nor wound her, 
For though the heart in the bosom 

Has ceased to. throb and beat, 
Speak low, when you say how they 
found her 
Buried alive in the sleet. 
Speak low, and make her a cover 

All out of her shining hair : 
Perhaps for the sake of a lover, 
Loved all too well, she was there. 

Desolate left in the Dead-house ! 

Your cruel judgments spare, 

Ye know not why she is there : 
Be slow to pronounce your " ?nene" 
Remember the Magdalene ; 

Be slow with your harsh award — 
Remember the Magdalene ; 

Remember the dear, dear Lord ! 
Holy, and high above her, 

By the length of her sin and shame, 
He could take her and love her — 

Praise to his precious name. 

With oil of gentle mercy 

The tide of your censure stem ; 
Have ye no scarlet sinning ? 
No need for yourselves of winning 
Those sweetest words man ever spake 
In all the world for pity's sake, 
Those words the heardest heart that 
break : 
" Neither do I condemn." 

In the light of morn to the Dead- 
house 
There cometh a man so old — 

" My child ! " he cries ; " I will wake 
her; 

Close, close in my arms I will take 
her, 

And bear her back on my shoulder, 
My poor stray lamb to the fold ! . 

How came she in this dreadful place ? " 

And he stoops and puts away from the 
face 
The queenly cover of gold. 

"No, no!" he says, "it is not my 
girl ! " 

As he lifts the tresses ciirl by curl, 

" She was never so pale and cold ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



137 



In the light of morn in the Dead-house, 

He prattleth like a child — 
•• No, no ! " lie say.-. " it cannot be — 
Her sweet eyes would have answered 
me, 

And her sweet mouth must have 
smiled — 
She would have asked for her mother, 
And for the good little brother 

That thought it pastime and pleasure 
To be up and at work tor her. 
And she doth not smile nor stir." 
And then, with his arms outspread 
From the slender feet to the head, 

He taketh the fearful measure. 
" No, no ! "' he says, " she would wake 

and smile " — 
But he listens breathless all the while 

If haply the heart may beat. 
And tenderly with trembling hands 
Out of the shining silken bands 

Combs the frozen sleet. 

In the light of morn in the Dead-house, 

He prattleth on and on — 
" As like her mother's as can be 
These two white hands ; but if 'twere 
she 

Who out of our house is gone, 
I must have found here by her side 
He to whom she was promised bride : 
And yet this way along the sieet 
We tracked the little wandering feet. 
And yesterday, her mother said, 
When she waked and called her from 

her bed, 
She looked like one a dream had 

crazed — 
Her mother thought the sunshine 
dazed. 

And thought it childish passion 
That made her, when she knelt to pray, 
Falter, and be afraid to say, 

Lord, keep us from temptation. 
And I bethink, the mother said — 
(What puts such thoughts into my 
head ?) 

That never once the live-long day 

Her darling sung the old love-lay 
That 't was her use to sing and hum 

As hums the bee to the blossom ; 
And that when night was nearly come 

She took from its place in her bosom 
The picture worn and cherished long, 
And as if that had done her wrong, 

Or, as if in sudden ire, 
And it were something to abhor, 

She laid it, not as she used at night 



Among the rose-leaves in the drawer, 
Hut out of her bosom and out of sight 
With its face against the tire. 

"But why should I torment my heart 
And the tear from his cheek he 
dashes) 
As it' such thoughts had any part 

With these pale, piteous ashes ? " 
He opens the lids, and the eyes are 

blue, 
" But these are frost and my child's 
were dew ! 
No, no ! it is not my poor lost girl." 
And he takes the tresses curl by curl 
And tenderly feels them over. 
u If it were she, the watch I know 
Would never have dragged her out 
of the snow — 
Why, where should be her lover ! " 
And clown the face and bosom fair 
He spread the long loose flood of hair, 
And left her in the Dead-house there, 
All under her queenly cover. 



ONE MOMENT. 

One moment, to strictly run out by the 
sands — 
Time, in the old way just to say the 

old saying — 
Enough for your giving — enough 
for my playing 
The hope of a life in your sinless white 
hands — 
To call you my sweetheart, and ask 

you to be 
My fond little fairy and live by the 
sea! 

Five minutes — ten — twenty ! but lit- 
tle to spare, 

Yet enough to repeat, in the homely 
old fashion, 

A story of true love, unfrenzied with 
passion — 
To say, " Will you make my rough 
weather be fair, 

And give me each clay your red 
cheek to be kissed ? 

My dear one, my darling, my rose of 
the mist ?" 

An half hour ! — would I dare say 
longer yet — 
And the time (is so much you will 
yield to my wishes). 



138 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



When luck-thriven fishermen draw 

their last fishes, 
Whose silver sleek sides in the sea 

dripping net, 
And speckles of red gold, and scales 

thin and crisp, 
Through the fog-drizzle shine like a 

Will-o'-the-wisp. 

An hour ! nay more — until star after 

star 
Takes his watch while the west-wind 

through shadows thick falling, 
Holds parley, in moans, with the tide, 

outward crawling, 
And licking the long shaggy back of 

the bar, 
As if in lamenting some ship gone 

aground, 
Or sailor, love-lorn, in the dead 

waters drowned. 

Two hours ! and not a hair's breadth 

from the grace 
Of your innocent trust would I any 

more vary 
Than rob of her lilies the virginal 

Mary ; 
But just in rrfy two hands would hold 

your fair face, 
And look in your dove-eyes, and ask 

you to be 
My good little housewife, and live by 

the sea ! 

Till midnight ! till morning ! old Time 

has fleet wings, 
And the space will be brief, so my 

courage to steady, 
As say, " Who weds me may not be 

a fine lady 
With silk gowns to wear, and twenty 

gold rings, 
But with only a nest in the rocks, 

leaving me 
Her praises to sing as I sail on the 

sea." 

I would buy her a wheel, and some flax- 
wisps, and wool, 

So when the wild gusts of the winter 
were blowing, 

And poor little bird-nest half hid in 
the snowing, 
The time never need to be dreary nor 
dull — 

But smiling the brighter, the darker 
the day, 



Her sunshine would scatter the 
shadows away. 

At eve, when the mist, like a shawl of 
fine lace, 

Wrapt her softly about, like a queen 
in her splendor, 

She still would sing over old sea- 
songs, so tender, 
To keep her in mind of her sailor's 
brown face — 

Of his distance and danger, and 
make her to be 

His good little housewife content by 
the sea. 

Believe me, sweet sweetheart, they have 
but hard lives 

Who go down to sea in great ships, 
never knowing 

How soon cruel waves o'er their 
heads will be flowing 
And fatherless children, and true- 
hearted wives, 

The place of their dead never see, 
never know — 

But the nest waits, my darling, ah ! 
say, will you go ? 



THE FLAX-BEATER. 

" Now give me your burden if burden 
you bear," 
So the flax-beater said, 
" And press out and wring out the rain 
from your hair, 
And come into my shed ; 
The sweetest sweet-milk you shall 
have for your fare, 
And- the whitest white-bread, 
With a sheaf of the goldenest straw 

for your bed : 
Then give me your burden, if burden 
you bear, 
And come into my shed ! 

" I make bold to press my poor lodg- 
ing and fare. 
For the wood-path is lone, 
Aye, lonely and dark as a dungeon- 
house stair, 
And jagged with stone. 
Sheer down the wild hills, and with 

thorn-brush o'ergrown, 
I have lost it myself in despite of my 
care. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



139 



Though I 'm used to rough ways and 
have courage to spare ; 

And then, my good friend, if the truth 

must be known. 
The huts of the settlers that stand here 
ami there 
Are as rude as my own. 

- The night will be black when the clay 

shall have gone ; 
'T is the old of the moon. 
And the winds wiil blow stiff, and more 

Stiffly right on. 
By the cry of the loon : 
Those terrible storm-harps, the oaks, 

are in tune, 
That creaking will fall to a crashing 

anon : 
For the sake of your pitiful, poor little 

one. 
You cannot, good woman, have lodging 

too soon ! 

" Hark ! thunder ! and see how the 
waters are piled. 
Cloud on cloud, overhead ; 
Mayhap I 'm too bold, but I once had a 
child — 
Sweet lady, she \s dead — 
The daffodil growing so bright and so 
wild 
At the door of my shed 
Is not yet so bright as her glad golden 

head, 
And her smile ! ah, if you could have 

seen how she smiled ! 
But what need of praises — you too 
have a child ! " 
So the flax-beater said. 

*• Ah, the soft summer-days, they were 

all just as one, 
And how swiftly they sped ; 
When the daisy scarce bent to her 

fairy-like tread, 
And the wife, as she sat at her wheel 

in the sun. 
Sang sea-songs and ditties of true-love 

that run 
All as smooth as her thread ; 
When her darling was gone then the 

singing was done, 
And she sewed her a shroud of the flax 

she had spun, 
And a cap for her head. 

" See, that cloud running over the last 
little star, 



Like a great inky blot. 
And now, in the low river hollows 

a tar. 
You can hear the wild waters through 

driftwood and bar, 
Boil up like a pot : 
It is as if the wide world was at war, 
So give me your burden, if such you 

have got, 
And come to my shed, for you must, 

will or not."' 

" Get gone you old man ! I 've no bur- 
den to bear ; 
You at best are misled ! 
And as for the rain, let it fall on my 
hair ; 
Is that so much to dread, 
That I should be begging for lodging 
and fare 
At a flax-beater's shed ? 
Get gone, and have done with your in- 
solent stare, 
And keep your gold straw, if you 
leave me instead 
But the ground for my bed ! " 
'T was thus the strange woman with 
wringing wet hair 
In her wretchedness said. 

" No burden ! and what is it then that 

I trace 
Wrapt so close in your shawl ? 
I remember the look of the dear little 

face, 
And remember the look of the head, 

round and small, 
That I saw once for all 
Under thin, filmy folds, like the folds 

of your shawl ! " 
" Why, then, 't is my bride-veil and 

gown, have the grace 
To believe — they are rolled in my 

kerchief of lace ; 
And that, old man, is all ! " 

"Woman ! woman ! bethink what it is 
that you say, 
Lest it bring you to harm. 

A bride-veil and gown are not hid 
such a way 
As the thing in your arm ! " 

" My good man, my dear man, remem- 
ber, I pray. 

What trifles were sacred your own 
wedding day, 

And leave me my bride-veil and gown 
hid away 



140 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



From the fret of the storm. 
Oh, soften your heart to accept what I 

say — 
It is these, only these that I have in 

my arm ! " 

" Only these ! just a touch of this 
i thing, and I know 

That my thoughts were misled ! 
But why turn you pale ? and why 

tremble you so ? 
If it be as you said, 
You have nothing from me nor from 

mortal to dread." 
Her voice fell to sobs, and she hung 

down her head, 
Hugged his knees, kissed his hands, 

kissed his feet as she said : 
" Now spare me, oh spare me this 

death-dealing blow, 
And give me your cold, coldest pity, 

instead ; 
I was crazed, and I spake you a lie in 

my woe ; 
I am bearing my dead, 
To bury it out of my sight, you must 

know ; 
But, good and sweet sir, I am wed, 

I am wecl ! " 

" Unswathe you the corpse, then, and 
give it to me, 
If that all be so well ; 
But what are these slender blue marks 
that I see 
At the throat ? Can you tell ? " 
" The kisses I gave it as it lay on my 

knee ! " 
" And dare you, false woman, to lie so 
to me ? " 
" Why, then ? t was the spell 
And work of a demon that came out of 

hell." 
" Now God give you mercy, if mercy 
there be, 
For the angels that fell, 
Because, if there came up a demon 
from hell, 
That demon was thee ! " 



COTTAGE AND HALL. 

With eyes to her sewing-work dropped 

down, 
And with hair in a tangled shower, 
And with roses kissed by the sun, so 

brown, 



Young Janey sat in her bower — 
A garden nook with work and book ; 

And the bars that crossed her girl- 
ish gown 
Were as blue as the flaxen flower. 

And her little heart it beat and beat, 
Till the work shook on her knee, 

For the golden combs are not so 
sweet 
To the honey-fasting bee 

As to her her thoughts of Alexis. 

And across a good green piece of 
wood, 

And across a field of flowers, 
A modest, lowly house there stood 

That held her eyes for hours — 
A cottage low, hid under the snow 

Of cherry and bean-vine flowers. 
Sometimes it held her all day long, 

For there at her distaff bent, 
And spinning a double thread of song 

And of wool, in her sweet content, 
Sat the mother of young Alexis. 

And Janey turned things in and out, 

As foolish maids will do. 
What could the song be all about ? 

Yet well enough she knew 
That while the fingers drew the wool 

As fine as fine could be, 
The loving mother-heart was full 

Of her boy gone to sea — 
Her blue-eyed boy, her pride and joy, 

On the cold and cruel sea — 
Her darling boy, Alexis. 

And beyond the good green piece of 
wood, 

And the field of flowers so gay, 
Among its ancient oaks there stood, 

With gables high and gray, 
A lofty hall, where mistress of all 

She might dance the night away. 
And as she sat and sewed her seam 

In the garden bower that day 
Alike from seam and alike from dream 

Her truant thoughts would stray ; 
It would be so fine like a lady to shine, 

And to dance the night away ! 
And oh, and alas for Alexis ! 

And suns have risen and suns gone 
down 
On cherry and bean-vine bowers, 
And the tangled curls . o'er the eyes 
dove-brown 
They fall no more in showers ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



141 



Nor arc there bars in the homespun 
gown 

As blue as the flaxen flowers. 
Aye, winter wind and winter rain 

Have beaten away the bowers, 
And little Janev is Lady Jane, 

And dances away the hours ! 
.Maidens she hath to -play and sing, 

And her mother's house and land 
Could never buy the jeweled ring 

She wears on her Illy hand — 
The hand that is false to Alexis ! 

Ah, bright were the sweet young 
cheeks and eyes. 
And the silken gown was gay. 
When first to the hall as mistress of 
all 
She came on her wedding-day. 
" Now where, my bride,'' says the 
groom in pride — 
•• Now where will your chamber be ?" 
And from wall to wall she praises all, 

But chooses the one by the sea ! 
And the suns they rise and the suns 
they set, 
But she rarely sees their gleam, 
For often her eyes with tears are wet. 
And the sewing-work is unfinished 
yet, 
And so is the girlish dream. 

For when her ladies gird at her, 
And her lord is cold and stern, 

Old memories in her heart must stir, 
And she cannot choose but mourn 

For the gentle boy, Alexis ! 

And alway, when the dance is done, 

And her weary feet are free, 
She sits in her chamber all alone 

At the window next the sea, 
And combs her shining tresses down 

By the light of the fading stars, 
And may be thinks of her homespun 
gown 

With the pretty flax-flower bars. 
For when the foam of wintry gales 

Runs white along the blue, 
Hearing the rattle of stiffened sails, 

She trembles through and through, 
And may be thinks of Alexis. 



THE MINES OF AVONDALE. 

Old Death proclaims a holocaust — 
Two hundred men must die ! 



And he cometh not like a thief in the 
night, 
But with banners lifted high. 
He calleth the North wind out o' th' 
North 
To blow him a signal blast. 
And to plough the air with a fiery 
share, 
And to sow the sparks, broadcast. 
No fear hath he of the arm of flesh, 

And he maketh the winds to cry, 

Let come who will to this awful hill 

And his strength against me try ! 

So quick those sparks along the land 

Into blades of flame have sprung ; 
So quick the piteous face of Heaven 

With a veil of black is hung : 
And men are telling the news with 
words, 

And women with tears and sighs, 
And the children with the frightened 
souls 

That are staring from their eyes. 
" Death, death is holding a holocaust ! 

And never was seen such pyre — 
Head packed to head and above them 
spread 

Full forty feet of fire ! " 

From hill to hill-top runs the cry. 

Through farm and village and town, 
And high and higher — " The mine 's 
on fire ! 
Two hundred men sealed down ! 
And not with the dewy hand o' th' earth, 
And not with the leaves of the 
trees — 
Nor is it the waves that roof their 
graves — 
Oh no, it is none of these — 
From sight and sound walled round 
and round — 
For God's sake haste to the pyre ! 
In the black coal-beds, and above their 
heads 
Full forty feet of fire ! " 

And now the villages swarm like bees, 

And the miners catch the sound, 
And climb to the land with their picks 
in hand 

From their chambers in the ground. 
For high and low and rich and poor, 

To a holy instinct true, 
Stand forth as if all hearts were 
one 

And a-tremble through and through. 



142 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



On, side by side they roll like a tide, 
And the voice grows high and higher, 

" Come woe, come weal, we must break 
the seal 
Of that forty feet of fire." 

Now cries of fear, shrill, far and near, 

And a palsy shakes the hands, 
And the blood runs cold, for behold, 
behold 
The gap where the enemy stands ! 
Oh, never had painter scenes to paint 

So ghastly and grim as these — 
Mothers that comfortless sit on the 
ground 
With their babies on their knees ; 
The brown-cheeked lad and the maid 
as sad 
As the grandame and the sire, 
And 'twixt them all and their loved, 
that wall — 
That terrible wall of fire ! 

And the grapple begins and the fore- 
most set 
Their lives against death's laws, 
And the blazing timbers catch in their 
arms 
And bear the*m off like straws. 
They have lowered the flaunting flag 
from its place — 
They will die in the gap, or save ; 
For this they have done, whate'er be 
won — 
They have conquered fear of the 
grave. 
They have baffled — have driven the 
enemy, 
And with better courage strive ; 
" Who knoweth," they say, " God's 
mercy to-day, 
And the souls He may save alive ! " 

So now the hands have digged through 
the brands — 

They can see the awful stairs, 
And there falls a hush that is only 
stirred 

By the weeping women's prayers. 
" Now who will peril his limb and life, 

In the damps of the dreadful mine ? " 
" I, I, and I ! " a dozen cry, 

As they forward step from line ! 
And down from the light and out o' th' 
sight, 

Man after man they go, 
And now arise th' unanswered cries 

As they beat on the doors below. 



And night came down — what a woeful 
night ! 
To the youths and maidens fair, 
What a night in the lives of the miners' 
wives 
At the gate of a dumb despair. 
And the stars have set their solemn 
watch 
In silence o'er the hill, 
And the children sleep and the women 
weep, 
And the workers work with a will. 
And so the hours drag on and on, 

And so the night goes by, 
And at last the east is gray with dawn, 
And the sun is in the sky. 

Hark, hark ! the barricades are down, 

The torchlights farther spread, 
The doubt is past — they are found at 
last — 

Dead, dead ! two hundred dead ! 
Face, close to face, in a long embrace, 

And the young and the faded hair — 
Gold over the snow as if meant to show 

Love stayed beyond despair. 
Two hundred men at yester morn 

With the work of the world to strive ; 
Two hundred yet when the day was set, 

And not a soul alive ! 

Oh, long the brawny Plymouth men, 

As they sit by their winter fires, 
Shall tell the tale of Avondale 

And its awful pyre of pyres. 
Shall hush their breath and tell how 
• Death 

His flag did wildly wave, 
And how in shrouds of smoky clouds 

The miners fought in their graves. 
And how in a still procession 

They passed from that fearful glen, 
And there shall be wail in Avondale, 

For the brave two hundred men. 



THE VICTORY OF PERRY. 

SEPTEMBER IOTH, 1813. 

Lift up the years ! lift up the years, 
Whose shadows around us spread ; 

Let us tribute pay to the brave to-day 
Who are half a century dead. 

Oh, not with tears — no, not with tears, 
The grateful nation comes, 



BALLADS AXP NARRATIVE POEMS. 



143 



But with flags out-thrown, and bugles 
blown, 

And the martial roll of drums I 

Beat up, boat up ! till memory glows 
And sets our hearts aflame ! 

Ah. they did well in the fight who fell. 
And we leave them to their fame ; 

Their fame, that larger, grander grows 

As time runs into the past, 
For the Erie-waves chant over their 
graves, 

And shall, while the world shall last. 

O beautiful cities of the Lake. 

As ye sit by your peaceful shore, 
Make glad and sing till the echoes 
ring. 

For our brave young Commodore ! 

He knew your stormy oaks to take 
And their ribs into ships contrive, 

And to set them so tine in battle line, 
With their timbers yet alive. 1 

^ee our squadron lie in the Bay 
Where it lay so long ago, 
And hear the cry from the mast-head 
high. 
Three times, and three, " Sail ho .' " 

Through half a century to-day 
We hear the signal of fight — 

" Get under way ! Get under way / 
The enemy is in sight ! " 

Our hearts leap up — our pulses thrill, 
As the boatswains' pipes of joy 

So loudly play o'er the dash o' the 
spray, 
'* All hands up anchor ahoy ! " 

Now all is still, aye, deathly still ; 

The enemy's guns are in view ! 
•• To the royal fore > " cries the Com- 
modore, 

And up run the lilies and blue. 2 

And hark to the cry, the great glad 
cry, — 
All a-tremble the squadron stands — 

' Pern-, it will be remembered, cut clown the trees, 
built and launched the ships of his fleet, all within 
three months. 

The famous fighting: flag was inscribed with the 
immortal words of the dying Lawrence, in large white 
letters on a blue ground, legible throughout the squad- 
ron. 



From lip to lip, "Don't give up the 
ship."' 
And then " To quarters, all hands J '" 

An hour, an awful hour drags by — 
There 's a shot from the enemy's 
gun ! 
" Mori sail ! More sail / Let the can- 
ister hail /" 
Cries Perry, and forward, as one, 

Caledonia, Lawrence, and Scorpion, all 

Bear down and stand fast, till the 

flood 

Away from their track sends the scared 

billows back 

With their faces bedabbled in blood. 

The Queen l and her allies their broad- 
sides let fall — 
Oh, the Lawrence is riddled with 
storms — 
Where is Perry ? afloat ! he is safe in 
his boat, 
And his battle-flag up in his arms ! 

The bullets they hiss and the English- 
men shout — 
Oh, the Lawrence is sinking, a 
wreck — 
But with flag yet a-swing like a great 
bloody wing 
Perry treads the Niagara? s deck ! 

With a wave of his hand he has wheeled 
her about — 
Oh, the nation is holding its breath — 
Headforemost he goes in the midst of 
his foes 
And breaks them and rakes them to 
death ! 

And lo, the enemy, after the fray, 
On the deck that his dead have lined, 

With his sword-hilt before to our Com- 
modore, 
And his war-dogs in leash behind ! 

And well, the nation does well to-day, 

Setting her bugles to blow, 
And her drums to beat for the glorious 
fleet 

That humbled her haughty foe. 

Ah, well to come with her autumn 
flowers, 
A tribute for the brave 

1 Queen Cliarlotte of the British line 



144 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Who died to make our Erie Lake 
Echo through every wave — 

" We 've met the enemy and they ''re 
ours ! " 

And who died, that we might stand, 
A country free and mistress at Sea 

As well as on the Land. 



THE WINDOW JUST OVER THE 
STREET. 

I sit in my sorrow a-weary, alone ; 
I have nothing sweet to hope or re- 
member, 
For the spring o' th' year and of life 
has flown ; 
'T is the wildest night o' the wild 

December, 
And dark in my spirit and dark in 
my chamber. 

I sit and list to the steps in the street, 
Going and coming, and coming and 

And the wi»ds at my shutter they blow 

and beat ; 
'T is the middle of night and the 

clouds are snowing ; 
And the winds are bitterly beating 

and blowing. 

I list to the steps as they come and 

g0 ' 

And list to the winds that are beat- 
ing and blowing, 
And my heart sinks down so low, so 
low ; 

No step is stayed from me by the 
snowing, 

Nor stayed by the wind so bitterly 
blowing. 

I think of the ships that are out at 
sea, 

Of the wheels in th' cold, black wa- 
ters turning ; 
Not one of the ships beareth news to 
me, 

And my head is sick, and my heart 
is yearning, 

As I think of the wheels in the black 
waters turning. 

Of the mother I think, by her sick 
baby's bed, 



Away in her cabin as lonesome and 

dreary, 
And little and low as the flax-breaker's 

shed ; 
Of her patience so sweet, and her 

silence so weary, 
With cries of the hungry wolf hid in 

the prairie. 

I think of all things in the world that 
are sad ; 

Of children in homesick and com- 
fortless places ; 
Of prisons, of dungeons, of men that 
are mad ; 

Of wicked, unwomanly light in the 
faces 

Of women that fortune has wronged 
with disgraces. 

I think of a dear little sun-lighted head, 
That came where no hand of us all 
could deliver ; 
And crazed with the crudest pain went 
to bed 
Where the sheets were the foam- 
fretted waves of the river ; 
Poor darling ! may God in his mercy 
forgive her. 

The footsteps grow faint and more 
faint in the snow ; 
I put back the curtain in very de- 
spairing ; 
The masts creak and groan as th' 
winds come and go ; 
And the light in the light-house all 

weirdly is flaring ; 
But what glory is this, in the gloom 
of despairing ! 

I see at the window just over the 
street, 

A maid in the lamplight her love- 
letter reading. 
Her red mouth is smiling, her news is 
so sweet ; 

And the heart in my bosom is cured 
of its bleeding, 

As I look on the maiden her love- 
letter reading. 

She has finished the letter, and folding 

it, kisses, 
And hides it — a secret too sacred 

to know ; 
And now in the hearth-light she softly 

undresses : 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



145 



A vision of grace in the roseate 

glow, 
I see her unbinding the braids 01 her 

tresses. 

And now as she stoops to the ribbon 
that fastens 
Her slipper, they tumble o'er shoul- 
der and face ; 
And now. as she patters in bare feet, 
she hastens 
To gather them up in a fillet of lace ; 
And now she is gone, but in fancy I 
trace 

The lavendered linen updrawn, the 
round arm 

Half sunk in the counterpane's 
broidered roses. 
Revealing the exquisite outline of 
form ; 

A willowy wonder of grace that re- 
poses 

Beneath the white counterpane, 
fleecy with roses. 

I see the small hand lying over the 
heart, 
Where the passionate dreams are so 
sweet in their sally : 
The fair little fingers they tremble and 
part. 
As part to th' warm waves the leaves 

of the lily. 
And they play with her hand like the 
waves with the lily. 

white fleecy flowers, the queen o' 

the flowers ! 
v'hat to her is the world with its 

bad, bitter weather ? 
de she opens her arms — ah, her 

world is not ours ! 
ind now she has closed them and 

clasped them together — 
Vhat to her is our world, with its 

clouds and rough weather ? 

Hark ! midnight ! the winds and the 
snows blow and beat ; 
I drop down the curtain and say to 
my sorrow, 
Thank God for the window just over 
the street ; 
Thank God there is always a light 

whence to borrow 
When darkness is darkest, and sor- 
row most sorrow. 
10 



A FABLE OF CLOUD-LAND. 

Two clouds in the early morning 

Came sailing up the sky — 
'T was summer, and the meadow-lands 

Were brown and baked and dry. 

And the higher cloud was large and 
black, 
And of a scornful mind. 
And he sailed as though he turned his 
back 
On the smaller one behind. 

At length, in a voice of thunder, 
He said to his mate so small, 

" If I was n't a bigger cloud than you, 
I would n't be one at all ! " 

And the little cloud that held her 
place 

So low along the sky, 
Grew red, then purple, in the face, 

And then she began to cry ! 

And the great cloud thundered out 
again 

As loud as loud could be, 
" Lag lowly still, and cry if you will, 

I 'm going to go to sea ! 

" The land don't give me back a smile, 

I will leave it to the sun, 
And will show you something worth 
your while, 

Before the day is done ! " 

So off he ran, without a stop, 

Upon his sea voyage bent, 
And he never shed a single drop 

On the dry land as he went. 

And directly came a rumble 

Along the air so dim ; 
And then a crash, and then a dash, 

And the sea had swallowed him ! 

" I don't make any stir at all," 
Said the little cloud, with a sigh, 

And her tears began like rain to fall 
On the meadows parched and dry. 

And over the rye and the barley 

They fell and fell all day. 
And soft and sweet on the fields of 
wheat. 

Till she wept her heart away. 



146 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the bean-flowers and the buck- 
wheat, 
They scented all the air, 
And in the time of the harvest 

There was bread enough and to 
spare. 

I know a man like that great cloud 

As much as he can live, 
And he gives his alms with thunder- 
cloud 

Where there is no need to give. 

And I know a woman who doth keep 
Where praise comes not at all, 

Like the modest cloud that could but 
weep 
Because she was so small. 

The name of the one the poor will 
bless 

When her day shall cease to be, 
And the other will fall as profitless 

As the cloud did in the sea. 



BARBARA AT THE WINDOW. 

Close at the tvindow-pane Barbara 
stands ; 
The walls o' th' dingy old house are 
aglow ; 
Pressing her cheeks are her two little 
hands, 
Drooping her eyelids so meek and so 
low. 

What do you see little Barbara ? Say ! 
The walls o' th' dingy old house are 
aglow ; 
The leaves they are down, and the 
birds are away, 
And lilac and rosebush are white 
with the snow. 

An hour the sun has been out o' th' 
west ; 
The walls o' th' poor little house are 
aglow ; 
Come, Barbara, come to th' hearth with 
th' rest, 
Right gayly she tosses her curls for 
a " No ! " 

The grandmother sits in her straw- 
bottom chair ; 
And rafter and wall they are brightly 
aglow ; 



The dear little mother is knitting a pair 
Of scarlet-wool stockings tipt white 
at th' toe. 

A glad girl and boy are at play by her 
knee ; 
The walls o' th' poor little house are 
aglow ! 
Now driving th' crickets, for cows, in 
their glee, 
Now rolling the yarn-balls o' scarlet 
and snow. 

And now they are fishers, with nets in 
the stream ; 
And rafter and wall o' the house are 
aglow ; 
Or sleeping, or waking, their lives are 
a dream ; 
But what seeth Barbara, there in the 
snow ? 

And th' voice of Barbara ringeth out 
clear ; 
The walls, the rough rafters, how 
brightly they glow ; 
If you will believe me, I see you all 
here ! 
Our dear little room seemeth double, 
you know. 

The fire, the tea-kettle swung on the 
crane ; 
And rafter and wall with the candle 
aglow ; 
Grandmother and mother, right ( 
again ! 
And Peter, and Katharine, all in 
snow. 

Sweet Barbara, standing so close t< 
pane, 
With the walls o' th' little h« 
brightly aglow ; 
You will only see everything over ag 
Whatever you see, and wherever you 
20 ! 



BARBARA IN THE MEADOW. . 

The morn is hanging her fire-fringed 
veil, 
Made of the mist, o'er the walnut 
boughs, 
And Barbara, with her cedar pail, 
Comes to the meadow to call the 
cows. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE FORMS. 



147 



"The little people that live in the air 
Are not for my human hands to 
wrong," 

Says Barbara, and her loving prayer 
Takes them up as it goes along. 

Gay sings the miller, and Barbara's 
mouth 
Purses with echoes it will not repeat. 
And the rose on her cheek hath a May- 
day's growth 
In the line with the ending, " I love 
you, BW< 

Yonder the mill is, small and white, 

Hung like a vapor among the rocks — 
Good spirits say to her morn and night, 
M Barbara, Barbara ! stay with your 
flocks." 

Stay for the treasures you have to keep, 
Cherish the love that you know is 
true ; 
Though stars should shine in the tears 
you weep. 
They never would come out of heaven 
to you. 

And were you to follow the violet veins 
Over the hills — to the ends of the 
earth, 
Barbara, what would you get for your 
pains. 
More than your true-love's love is 
worth ? 

So, never a thought about braver mills, 

Of prouder lovers your dreaming 

cease ; 

A world is shut in among these hills — 

Stay in it, Barbara, stay, for your 

peace ! 



BALLAD OF UNXLE JOE. 

When I was young — it seems as 
though 

There never were such when — 
There lived a man that now I know 

Was just the best of men : 
I '11 name him to you, " Uncle Joe," 

For so we called him then. 

A poor man he, that for his bread 
Must work with might and main. 

The humble roof above his head 
Scarce kept him from the rain ; 



But so his dog and he were fed, 
He sought no other gain. 

His steel-blue axe. it was his pride, 

And over wood and wave- 
Its music rang out far and wide, 

His strokes they were so brave ; 
Excepting that some neighbor died, 

And then he dug his grave. 

And whether it were wife or child, 

An old man, or a maid, 
An infant that had hardly smiled, 

Or youth, so lowly laid, 
The yellow earth was always piled 

Above them by his spade. 

For spade he had, and grubbing-hoe, 
And hence the people said 

It was not much that Uncle Joe 
Should bury all the dead ; 

So rich and poor, and high and low, 
He made them each a bed. 

The funeral-bell was like a jog 

Upon his wits, they say, 
That made him leave his half-cut log 

At any time of day, 
And whistle to his brindle dog 

And light his pipe of clay. 

When winter winds around him drave 
And made the snow-flakes spin, 

I 've seen him — for he did not save 
His strength, for thick nor thin — 

His bare head just above the grave 
That he was standing in. 

His simple mind was almost dark 
To school-lore, that is true ; 

The wisdom he had gained at work 
Was nearly all he knew ; 

But ah, the way he made his mark 
Was honest, through and through. 

'T was not among the rulers then 

That he in council sat ; 
They used to say that with his pen 

His fingers were not pat ; 
But he was still a gentleman 

For all and all of that. 

The preacher in his silken gown 

Was not so well at ease 
As he, with collar lopping down 

And patches at his knees, 
The envy of our little town, 

He had n't a soul to please ; 



148 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Nor wife nor brother, chick nor child, 

Nor any kith nor kin. 
Perhaps the townsfolk were beguiled 

And the envy was a sin, 
But his look of sweetness when he 
smiled 

Betokened joy within. 

He sometimes took his holiday, 
And 7 t was a pleasant sight 

To see him smoke his pipe of clay, 
As if all the world went right, 

While his brindle dog beside him lay 
A- winking at the light. 

He took his holiday, and so 
His face with gladness shone ; 

But, ah ! I cannot make you know 
One bliss he held alone, 

Unless the heart of Uncle Joe 
Were beating in your own ! 

He had an old cracked violin, 
And I just may whisper you 

The music was so weak and thin 
'T was like to an ado, 

As he drew the long bow out and in 
To all the tune he knew. 

From January on till June, 

And back again to snow, 
Or in the tender light o' the moon, 

Or by the hearth-fire's glow, 
To that old-fashioned, crazy tune 

He made his elbow go ! 

Ah ! then his smile would come so 
sweet 

It brightened all the air, 
And heel and toe would beat and beat 

Till the ground of grass was bare, 
As if that little lady feet 

Were dancing with him there ! 

His finger nails, so bruised and flat, 
Would grow in this employ 

To such a rosy roundness that 
He almost seemed a boy. 

And even the old crape on his hat 
Would tremble as with joy. 

So, digging graves, and chopping 
wood, 

He spent the busy day, 
And always, as a wise man should, 

Kept evil thoughts at bay ; 
For when he could not speak the good, 

He had n't a word to say. 



And so the years in shine and storm 

Went by, as years will go, 
Until at last his palsied arm 

Could hardly draw the bow ; 
Until he crooked through all his form, 

Much like his grubbing-hoe. 

And then his axe he deeply set, 

And on the wall-side pegs 
Hung hoe and spade ; no fear nor fret 

That life was at the dregs, 
But walked about of a warm day yet, 

With his dog between his legs. 

Sometimes, as one who almost grieves, 

His memory would recall 
The merry-making Christmas Eves, 

The frolic, and the ball. 
Till his hands would shake like with- 
ered leaves 

And his pipe go out and fall. 

Then all his face would grow as 
bright — 

So I have oft heard say — 
As if that, being lost in the night, 

He saw the dawn o' the day : 
As if from a churlish, chilling height 

He saw the light o' t|ie May. 

One winter night the fiddle-bow 
His fingers ceased to tease, 

And they found him by the morning 
glow 
Beneath his door-yard trees, 

Wrapt in the ermine of the snow, 
And royally at ease. 

What matter that the winds were 
wild ! 

He did not hear their din, 
But hugging, as it were his child, 

Against his grizzly chin, 
The treasure of his life, he smiled, 

For ail was peace within. 

And when they drew the vest apart 

To fold the hands away, 
They found a picture past all art 

Of painting, so they say : 
And they turned the face upon the 
heart, 

And left it where it lay. 

And one, a boy with golden head, 
Made haste and strung full soon 

The crazy viol ; for he said. 
Mayhap beneath the moon 



BALLADS AXD XARRATIVE POEMS. 



I49 



They danced sometime a merry tread 
To the beloved tune. 

And many an eye with tears was dim 
The while Ins corse they bore ; 

hands had ever worked for him 
Since he was born before: 

Nor could there come an hour so grim 
That he should need them more. 

The viol, ready tuned to play. 

The sadly-silent bow, 
The axe, the pipe of yellow clay. 

Are in his crave so low ; 
And there is nothing more to say 

Of poor old Uncle Joe. 



THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER. 

Her voice was tender as a lullaby. 
Making you think of milk-white 
dews that creep 
Among th' mid-May violets, when 
they lie, 
All in yellow moonlight fast asleep. 

Aye, tender as that most melodious tone 
The lark has, when within some 
covert dim 
With leaves, he talks with morning all 
alone, 
Persuading her to rise and come to 
him. 

Shy in her ways : her father's cattle 
knew — 
No neighbor half so well — her 
footstep light, 
For by the pond where mint and mal- 
lows grew 
Always she came and called them 
home at night. 



A sad, low pond that cut the field in 
two 
Wherein they ran, and never billow 
sent 
To play with any breeze, but still with- 
drew 
Into itself, in wrinkled, dull content. 

And here, through mint and mallows 
she would stray. 
Musing the while she called, as it 
might be 
On th' cold clouds, or winds that with 
rough gray 
Shingled the landward slope of the 
near sea. 

God knows ! not I, on what she mused 
o' nights 
Straying about the pond : she had 
no woe 
To think upon, they said, nor such de- 
lights 
As maids are wont to hide. I only 
know 

We do not know the weakness or the 
worth 
Of any one : th' Sun as he will may 
trim 
His golden lights ; he cannot see the 
earth 
He loves, but on the side she turns 
to him. 

I only know that when this lonesome 
pond 
Lifted the buried lilies from its 
breast 
One warm, wet day (I nothing know 
beyond), 
It lifted her white face up with the 
rest. 





POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



ON SEEING A DROWNING MOTH- 

Poor little moth ! thy summer sports 

were done, 
Had I not happened by this pool to lie ; 
But thou hast pierced my conscience 

very sore 
With thy vain flounderings, so come 

ashore 
In the safe hollow of my helpful hand, — 
Rest thee a little on the warm, dry 

sand, 
Then crawling out into the friendly 

sun, 
As best thou mayest, get thy wet wings 

dry. 
Aye, it has touched my conscience, little 

moth, 
To see thy bright wings made for other 

use, 
Haply for just a moment's chance 

abuse, 
Dragging thee, thus, to death ; yet am 

I loath 
To heed the lesson, for I fain would lie 
Along the margin of this water low 
And watch the sunshine run in tender 

gleams 
Down the gray elders — watch those 

flowers of light, — 
If flowers they be, and not the golden 

dreams 
Left in her grassy pillows by the 

night, — 
The dandelions, that trim the shadows 

so, 
And watch the wild flag, with her eyes 

of blue 
Wide open for the sun to look into, — 
Her green skirts laid along the wind, 

and she, 
As if to mar fair fortune wantonly, 



Wading along the water, half her 

height. 
Fain would I lie, with arms across my 

breast, 
As quiet as yon wood-duck on her nest, 
That sits the livelong day with ruffled 

quills, 
Waiting to see the little yellow bills 
Breach the white walls about them, — 

would that I 
Could find out some sweet charm 

wherewith to buy 
A too uneasy conscience, — then would 

Rest 
Gather and fold me to itself ; and last, 
Forgetting the hereafter and the past, 
My soul would have the present for its 

guest, 
And grow immortal. 

So, my little fool, 
Thou 'rt back upon the water ! Lord ! 

how vain 
The strife to save or man or moth from 

pain 
Merited justly, — having thy wild way 
To travel all the air, thou comest here 
To try with spongy feet the treacher- 
ous pool ; 
Well, thou at least hast made one truth 

more clear, — 
Men make their fate, and do not fate 

obey. 



GOOD AND EVIL. 

The evil that men do lives after them, 
The good is oft interred with their bones. 
Julius C^sar. 

Once when the messenger that stays 
For all, beside me stood, 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



151 



I mused on what great Shakespeare 
says 
Of evil and of good. 

And shall the evil 1 have clone 

Live after me ? I said ; 
When lo ! a splendor like the sun 

Shone round about my bed. 

And a sweet spirit of the skies 

Near me, yet all apart, 
In whispers like the low wind's sighs, 

Spake to m\ listening heart ; 

Saying, your poet, reverenced thus, 
For once hath been unwise ; 

The good we do lives after us, 
The evil 't is that dies ! 

Evil is earthy, of the earth, — 

A thing of pain and crime, 
That scarcely sends a shadow forth 

Beyond the bounds of time. 

But good, in substance, dwells above 

This discontented sphere, 
Extending only, through God's love, 

Uncertain shadows here. 



STROLLER'S SONG. 

The clouds all round the sky are black, 
As it never would shine again ; 

But I '11 sling my wallet over my back, 
And trudge in spite of the rain ! 

And if there rise no star to guide 

My feet when day is gone, 
I 'll shift my wallet the other side, 

And trudge right on and on. 

For this of a truth I always note, 
And shape my course thereby, 

That Nature has never an overcoat 
To keep her furrows dry. 

And how should the hills be clothed 
with grain, 

The vales with flowers be crowned, 
But for the chain of the silver rain 

That draws them out of the ground ! 

So I will trudge with heart elate, 
And feet with courage shod, 

For that which men call chance and fate 
Is the handiwork of God. 



There 's time for the night as well as 
the morn, 
For the dark as the shining sky ; 
The grain of the corn and the flower 
unborn 



Have rights as well as I. 



A LESSON. 



One autumn-time I went into the 
woods 
When Nature grieves, 
And wails the drying up of the bright 
floods 
Of summer leaves. 

The rose had drawn the green quilt of 
the grass 
Over her head, 
And, taking off her pretty, rustling 
dress, 



Had gone to bed. 



ruffling 



And, while the wind went 
through her bower 

To do her harm, 
She lay and slept away the frosty hour, 

All safe and warm. 

The little bird that came when May was 
new, 

And sang her best, 
Had gone, — I put my double hand into 

Her chilly nest. 

Then, sitting down beneath a naked 
tree, 

I looked about, — 
Saying, in these, if there a lesson be, 

I '11 spy it out. 

And presently the teaching that was 
meant 

I thought I saw, — 
That I, in trial, should patiently consent 

To God's great law. 



He spoils his house and throws his 
pains away 
Who, as the sun veers, builds his 
windows o'er, 
For, should he wait, the Light, some 
time of day, 
Would come and sit beside him in 
his door. 



152 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



ON SEEING A WILD BIRD. 

Beautiful symbol of a freer life, 
Knowing no purpose, and yet true to 

one ; 
Would I could learn thy wisdom, I 
who run 
This way and that, striving against my 
strife. 

No fancy vague, no object half un- 
known, 
Diverts thee from thyself. By stops 

and starts 
I live the while by little broken parts 
A thousand lives, — not one of all, my 
own. 

Thou sing'st thy full heart out, and low 
or high 
Flyest at pleasure ; who of us can say 
He lives his inmost self e'en for a 
day, 
And does the thing he would ? alas, 
not I. 

We hesitate, go backward, and return, 
And when the dearth with living sun- 
shine gleams, 
We make a darkness round us with 
our dreams, 
And wait for that which we ourselves 
should earn. 

For we shall work out answers to our 
needs 
If we have continuity of will 
To hold our shifting purposes until 
They germinate, and bring forth fruit 
in deeds. 

We ask and hope too much, — too 
lightly press 
Toward the end sought, and haply 

learn, at length, 
That we have vainly dissipated 
strength 
Which, concentrated, would have 
brought success. 

But Truth is sure, and can afford to 
wait 
Our slow perception, (error ebbs and 

flows ;) 
Her essence is eternal, and she knows 
The world must swing round to her, 
soon or late. 



RICH, THOUGH POOR. 

Red in the east the morning broke, 
And in three chambers three men 

woke ; 
One through curtains wove that night 
In the loom of the spider, saw the light 
Lighting the rafters black and old, 
And sighed for the genii to make them 

gold. 

One in a chamber, high and fair, 
With paneled ceilings, enameled rare, 
On the purple canopy of his bed 
Saw the light with a sluggard's dread, 
And buried his sullen and sickly face 
Deep in his pillow fringed with lace. 

One,- from a low and grassy bed, 
With the golden air for a coverlet ; 
No ornaments had he to wear 
But his curling beard and his coal-black 

hair ; 
His wealth was his acres, and oxen 

twain, 
And health was his cheerful chamber- 
lain. 

Night fell stormy — " Woe is me ! " 
Sighed so wearily two of the. three ; 
" The corn I planted to-day will 

sprout," 
Said one, " and the roses be blushing 

out ; " 
And his heart with its joyful hope o'er- 

ran : 
Think you he was the poorest man ? 



Still from the unsatisfying quest 

To know the final plan, 
I turn my soul to what is best 

In nature and in man. 



The glance that doth thy neighbor 
doubt 

Turn thou, O man, within, 
And see if it will not bring out 

Some unsuspected sin. 

To hide from shame the branded brow, 

Make broad thy charity, 
And judge no man, except as thou 

Wouldst have him judge of thee. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 153 

Shall we die unto life while we 're liv- 
ing? 

Or die while we die ? 



SIXTEEN 



Suppose your hand with power sup- 
plied, — 
Say, would you slip it 'neath my hair, 
And turn it to the golden side 

Of sixteen years ? Suppose you 
dare ? 

And I stood here with smiling mouth. 
Red cheeks, and hands all softly 
white. 

Exceeding beautiful with youth, 

And that some sly, consenting sprite, 

Brought dreams as bright as dreams 
can be. 
To keep the shadows from my brow, 
And plucked down hearts to pleasure 
me. 
As you would roses from a bough ; 

What could I do then ? idly wear — 
While all my mates went on be- 
fore — 

The bashful looks and golden hair 
Of sixteen years, and nothing more ! 

Nay, done with youth is my desire, 
To Time I give no false abuse, 

Experience is the marvelous tire 
That welds our knowledge into use. 

And all its fires of heart, or brain, 
Where purpose into power was 
wrought, 

I 'd bear, and gladly bear again, 

Rather than be put back one thought. 

So sigh no more, my gentle friend, 

That I have reached the time of day 
When white hairs come, and heart- 
beats send 
No blushes 
astray. 



through the cheeks 



For, could you mould my destiny 
As clay within your loving hand, 

I 'd leave my youth's sweet company, 
And suffer back to where I stand. 



PRAYER FOR LIGHT. 

Oh what is Thy will toward us mortals, 
Most Holy and High ? 



Can we serve Thee and wait on Thee 
only 
In cells, dark and low ? 
Must the altars we build Thee be built 
with 
The stones of our woe ? 

Shall we only attain the great meas- 
ures 

Of grace and of bliss 
In the life that awaits us, by cruelly 

Warring on this ? 

Or, may we still watch while we work, 
and 

Be glad while we pray ? 
So reverent, we cast the poor shows of 

Our reverence away ! 

Shall the nature thou gav'st us, pro- 
nouncing it 
Good, and not ill, 
Be warped by our pride or our pas- 
sion 
Outside of Thy will ? 

Shall the sins which we do in our 
blindness 

Thy mercy transcend, 
And drag us down deeper and deeper 

Through worlds without end ? 

Or, are we stayed back in sure limits, 

And Thou, high above, 
O'erruling our trials for our triumph, 

Our hatreds for love ? 

And is each soul rising, though slowly, 

As onward it fares, 
And are life's good things and its evil 

The steps in the stairs ? 

All day with my heart and my spirit, 

In fear and in awe, 
I strive to feel out through my dark- 
ness 

Thy light and Thy law. 

And this, when the sun from his shin- 
ing 
Goes sadly away, 
And the moon looketh out of her cham- 
ber, 
Is all I can say ; 



154 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



That He who foresaw of transgression 

The might and the length, 
Has fashioned the law to exceed not 

Our poor human strength ! 



THE UNCUT LEAF. 

You think I do not love you ! Why, 
Because I have my secret grief? 

Because in reading I pass by, 
Time and again, the uncut leaf ? 

One rainy night you read to me 

In some old book, I know not what, 
About the woods of Eldersie, 



And a great hunt 



'. have forgot 



What all the story was — ah, well, 
It touched me, and I felt the pain 

With which the poor dumb creature fell 
To his weak knees, then rose again, 

And shuddering, dying, turned about, 
Lifted his antlered head in pride, 

And from his wounded face shook out 
The bloody arrows ere he died ! 

That night I almost dared, I think, 
To cut the leaf, and let the sun 

Shine in upon the mouldy ink, — 
You ask me why it was not done. 

Because I rather feel than know 
The truth which every soul receives 

From kindred souls that long ago 
You read me through the double 
leaves ! 

So pray you, leave my tears to blot 
The record of my secret grief, 

And though I know you know, seem not 
Ever to see the uncut leaf. 



THE MIGHT OF TRUTH. 

We are proclaimed, even against our 
wills — 
If we are silent, then our silence 
speaks — 

Children from tumbling on the summer- 
hills 
Come home with roses rooted in their 
cheeks. 

I think no man can make his lie hold 
good, — 

One way or other, truth is understood. 



The still sweet influence of a life of 
prayer 
Quickens their hearts who never bow 
the knee, — 
So come fresh draughts of living inland 
air 
To weary homesick men, far out at 
sea. 
Acquaint thyself with God, O man, and 

. lo! 
His light shall, Tike a garment, round 

thee flow. 

The selfishness that with our lives has 
grown, 
Though outward grace its full expres- 
sion bar, 

Will crop out here and there like belts 
of stone 
From shallow soil, discovering what 
we are. 

The thing most specious cannot stead 
the true, — 

Who would appear clean, must be clean 
all through. 

In vain doth Satan say, " My heart is 
glad, 
I wear of Paradise the morning- 
gem ; " 
While on his brow, magnificently sad, 
Hangs like a crag his blasted diadem. 
Still doth the truth the hollow lie invest, 
And all the immortal ruin stands con- 
fessed. 



TWO TRAVELERS. 

Two travelers, meeting by the way, 
Arose, and at the peep of day 
Brake bread, paid reckoning, and they 
say 

Set out together, and so trode 
Till where upon the forking road 
A gray and good old man abode, 

There each began his heart to strip, 
And all that light companionship 
That cometh of the eye and lip 

Had sudden end, for each began 
To ask the gray and good old man 
Whither the roads before them ran. 

One, as they saw, was shining bright, 



.US OF THOU Girl' AND FEELING, 



155 



With such a great and gracious light, 
It seemed that heaven must he in sight. 

"This," said the old man. "doth begin 
Full sweetly, but its end is in 
The dark ami desert-place of sin. 

•■ And this, that seemeth all to lie 
In gloomy shadow, — by-and-by, 

Maketh the gateway of the sky. 

'• Bide ye a little ; fast and pray, 
And 'twixt the good and evil way. 
Choose ye, my brethren, this day." 

And as the day was at the close 
The two wayfaring men arose, 
And each the road that pleased him 
chose. 

One took the pathway that began 
So brightlv, and so smoothly ran 
Through flowery fields, — deluded man ! 

Ere long he saw, alas ! alas ! 

All darkly, and as through a glass, 

Flames, and not flowers, along the 

grass. 

Then shadows round about him fell, 
And in his soul he knew full well 
His feet were taking hold on hell. 

He tried all vainly to retrace 

His pathway : horrors blocked the 

place, 
And demons mocked him to his face. 

Broken in spirit, crushed in pride, 
One morning by the highway-side 
He fell, and all unfriended, died. 

The other, after fast and prayer, 
Pursued the road that seemed less fair, 
And peace went with him, unaware. 

And when the old man saw where lay 
The traveler's choice, he said, " I pray, 
Take this to help you on the way ; " 

And gave to him a lovely book. 
Wherein for guidance he must look, 
He told him, if the path should crook. 

And so, through labyrinths of shade, 
When terror pressed, or doubt dis- 
mayed. 
He walked in armor all arrayed. 



So, over pitfalls traveled he, 
And passed the gates of harlotry. 
Safe with his heavenly company. 

And when the road did low descend, 
He found a good inn, and a friend, 
And made a comfortable end. 



THi; 15LIND TRAVELER. 



A POOR blind man was traveling one 
day. 
The guiding staff from out his hand 
was gone, 
And the road crooked, so he lost his 
way, 
And the night fell, and a great storm 
came on. 



He was not, therefore, troubled and 
afraid, 
Nor did he vex the silence with his 
cries, 
But on the rainy grass his cheek he 
laid, 
And waited for the morning sun to 
rise. 

Saying to his heart, — Be still, my 

heart, and wait, 

For if a good man happen to go by, 

He will not leave us to cur dark estate 

And the cold cover of the storm, to 

die ; 

But he will sweetly take us by the hand, 
And lead us back into the straight 
highway ; 
Full soon the clouds will have evan- 
ished, and 
All the wide east be blazoned with 
the day. 

And we are like that blind man, all of 
us, — 
Benighted, lost ! But while the storm 
doth fall 
Shall we not stay our sinking hearts 
up, thus, — 
Above us there is One who sees it 
all; 

And if His name be Love, as we are 
told, 

He will not leave us to unequal strife ; 
But to that city with the streets of gold 

Bring us, and give us everlasting life. 



156 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



MY GOOD ANGEL. 



Very simple are my pleasures, — 
O good angel, stay with me, 
While I number what they be, — 

Easy 't is to count my treasures. 

Easy 't is, — they are not many : 
Friends for love and company, 
O good angel grant to me ; 

and is there any 



Strength to work 



Man or woman, evil seeing 
In my daily walk and way, 
Grant, and give me grace to pray 

For a less imperfect being. 

Grant a larger light, and better, 

To inform my foe and me, 

So we quickly shall agree ; 
Grant forgiveness to my debtor. 

Make my heart, I pray, of kindness 
Always full, as clouds of showers ; 

Keep my mortal eyes from blindness ; 
I would see the sun and flowers. 

From temptation pray deliver ; 

And, good angel, grant to me 
That my heart be grateful ever : 

Herein all my askings be. 



CARE. 

Care is like a husbandman 
Who doth guard our treasures : 

And the while, all ways he can, 
Spoils our harmless pleasures. 

Loving hearts and laughing brows, 
Most he seeks to plunder, 

And each furrow that he ploughs 
Turns the roses under. 



MORE LIFE. 

When spring-time prospers in the 
grass, 

And fills the vales with tender bloom, 
And light winds whisper as they pass 

Of sunnier days to come : 

In spite of all the joy she brings 

To flood and field, to hill and grove, 



Thi 



his is the song my spirit sings, — 
More light, more life, more love ! 



And when, her time fulfilled, she goes 
So gently from her vernal place, 

And meadow wide and woodland glows 
With sober summer grace : 

When on the stalk the ear is set, 
With all the harvest promise bright, 

My spirit sings the old song yet, — 
More love, more life, more light. 

When stubble takes the place of grain, 
And shrunken streams steal slow 
along, 

And all the faded woods complain 
Like one who suffers wrong ; 

When fires are lit, and everywhere 
The pleasures of the household rife, 

My song is solemnized to prayer, — 
More love, more light, more life ! 

CONTRADICTORY. 

We contradictory creatures 
Have something in us alien to our 

birth, 
That doth suffuse us with the infinite, 
While downward through our nat- 
ures 
Run adverse thoughts, that only find 
delight 
In the poor perishable things of 
earth. 

Blindly we feel about 
Our little circle, — ever on the quest 
Of knowledge, which is only, at the 

best, 
Pushing the boundaries of our ignor- 
ance out. 

But while we know all things-are mira- 
cles, 
And that we cannot set 
An ear of corn, nor tell a blade of grass 
The way to grow, our vanity o'erswells 
The limit of our wisdom, and we yet 
Audaciously o'erpass 
This narrow promontory 
Of low, dark land, into the unseen 
glory, 
And with unhallowed zeal 
Unto our fellow-men God's judgments 
deal. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND /■/■:/-: /./.\ 157 


Sometimes alone: the gloom 


Drifting in the stead of steering, — 


We meet a traveler, striking hands 


This is lite ! 


with whom. 




Maketh a little sweet and tender light 


Seeming to believe in seeming. 


To bless our sight, 


Halt disproving, to approve ; 


And change the clouds around us and 


Knowing that we dream, in dream- 


at* 


ing. — 


Into celestial shapes, — and this is 


This is love '. 


lo\ 






Being in our weakness stronger, — 


Morn cometh. trailing storms. 


Living where there is no breath ; 


Even while she wakes a thousand 


Feeling harm can harm no longer, — 


grateful psalms 


This is death. 


And "with her golden calms 




All the wide valley tills ; 




Darkly they lie below 


IX VAIN. 


The purple tire. — the glow. 




Where, on the high tops of the eastern 


Dowx the peach-tree slid 


hills. 


The milk-white drops of th' dew, 


She rests her cloudy arms. 


All in that merry time of th' year 




When the world is made anew. 


And we are like the morning, — 




heavenly light 


The daisy dressed in white, 


Blowing about our heads, and th' dumb 


The paw-paw flower in brown, 


night 


And th' violet sat by her lover, th' 


Before us and behind us : ceaseless 


brook, 


ills 


With her golden eyelids down. 


Make up our years ; and as from off 




the hills' 


Gayly its own best hue 


The white mists melt, and leave them 


Shone in each leaf and stem, — 


bare and rough. 


Gayly the children rolled on th' grass, 


So melt from us the fancies of our 


With their shadows after them. 


youth 




Until we stand against the last black 


I said, Be sweet for me, 


truth 


O little wild flowers ! for I 


Naked and cold, and desolate enough. 


Have larger need, and shut in myself. 




I wither and waste and die ! 




Pity me, sing for me ! 


THIS IS ALL. 


I cried to the tuneful bird ; 




My heart is full of th 1 spirit of song, 


Trying, trying — always trying — 


And I cannot sing a word ! 


Falling down to save a fall ; 




Living by the dint of dying. — 


Like a buried stream that longs 


This is all ! 


Through th' upper world to run, 




And kiss the dawn in her rosy mouth, 


Giving, giving — always giving — 


And lie in th' light of th' sun ; 


Gathering just abroad to cast : 




Dying by the dint of living 


So in me, is my soul, 


At the last ! 


Wasting in darkness the hours, 




Ever fretted and sullen and sad 


Sighing, smiling — smiling, sighing — 


With a sense of its unused powers. 


Sun in shade, and shade in sun ; 




Dying, living — living, dying — 


In vain ! each little flower 


Both in one ! 


Must be sweet for itself, nor part 




With its white or brown, and every 


Hoping in our very fearing. 


bird 


Striving hard against our strife ; 


Must sing from its own full heart. 



158 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



BEST, TO THE BEST. 

The wind blows where it listeth, 

Out of the east and west, 
And the sinner's way is as dark as 
death, 

And life is best, to the best. 

The touch of evil corrupteth ; 

Tarry not on its track ; 
The grass where the serpent crawls is 
stirred 

As if it grew on his back. 

To know the beauty of cleanness 
The heart must be clean and sweet ; 

We must love our neighbor to get his 
his love, — 
As we measure, he will mete. 

Cold black crusts to the beggar, 

A cloak of rags and woe ; 
And the furrows are warm to the sow- 
er's feet, 

And his bread is white as snow. 

Can blind eyes see the even, 

As he hangs *on th' days' soft close, 

Like a lusty boy on his mother's 
neck, 
Bright in the face as a rose ? 

The grave is cold and cruel, — 
Rest, pregnant with unrest ; 

And woman must moan and man must 
groan ; 
But life is best, to the best. 



THORNS. 

I do not think the Providence un- 
kind 
That gives its bad things to this life 
of ours ; 
They are the thorns whereby we, travel- 
ers blind, 
Feel out our flowers. 

I think hate shows the quality of 
love, — 
That wrong attests that somewhere 
there is right : 
Do not the darkest shadows serve to 
prove 
The power of light ? 



On tyrannous ways the feet of Freedom 
press ; 
The green bough broken off, lets 
sunshine in ; 
And where sin is, aboundeth righteous- 
ness, 
Much more than sin. 

Man cannot be all selfish ; separate 
good 
Is nowhere found beneath the shin- 
ing sun : 
All adverse interests, truly understood, 
Resolve to one ! 

I do believe all worship doth ascend, — 
Whether from temple floors by hea- 
then trod, 
Or from the shrines where Christian 
praises blend, — 
To the true God, 

Blessed forever : that His love pre- 
pares 
The raven's food ; the sparrow's fall 
doth see ; 
And, simple, sinful as I am, He cares 
Even for me. 



OLD ADAM. 

The wind is blowing cold from the 
west, 

And your hair is gray and thin ; 
Come in, old Adam, and shut the 
door, — 

Come in, old Adam, come in ! 
" The wind is blowing out o' the west, 

Cold, cold, and my hair is thin ; 
But it is not there, that face so fair, 

And why should I go in ? " 

The wind is blowing cold from the 
west ; 

The day is almost gone ; 
The cock is abed, the cattle fed, 

And the night is coming on ! 
Come in, old Adam, and shut the door, 

And leave without your care. 
" Nay, nay, for the sun of my life is 
down, 

And the night is everywhere." 

The cricket chirps, and your chair is 
set 
Where the fire shines warm and 
clear : 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



159 



Come in, old Adam, and you will tor- 
It is not the spring o' the year. 
Come in ! the wind blows wild from 
the west, 

And your hair is gray and thin. 
•• "V is not there now, that sweet, sweet 
brow. 
And why should I go in 



SOMETIM1 

Sometimes tor clays 

ng the rields that I of time have 
leased, 
I go, nor rind a single leaf increased ; 

And hopeless, graze 
With forehead stooping downward like 
a beast. 

heavy hours ! 

My life seems all a failure, and I sigh, 
What is there left for me to do, but 
die ? 
So small my powers 
That I can only stretch them to a cry ! 

But while I stretch 
What strength I have, though only to 

a cry, 
I gain an utterance that men know me 
by: 
Create, and fetch 
A something out of chaos, — that is I. 

Good comes to pass 
We know not when nor how, for, look- 
ing to 
What seemed a barren waste, there 
starts to view 
Some bunch of grass, 
Or snarl of violets, shining with the 
dew. 

1 do believe 

The very impotence to pray, is prayer ; 
The hope that all will end, is in de- 
spair, 
And while we grieve, 
Comfort abideth with us, unaware. 



Too much of joy is sorrowful, 
So cares must needs abound ; 

The vine that bears too many flowers 
Will trail upon the ground. 



THE SKA-SIDE CAVE. 

" A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that 
which hath wings tell the matter." 

At the dead of night by the side of 

the Sea 
I met my gray-haired enemy, — 
The glittering light of his serpent eye 
Was all I had to see him by. 

At the dead of night, and stormy 

weather 
We went into a cave together, — 
Into a cave by the side of the Sea, 
And — he never came out with me ! 

The flower that up through the April 

mould 
Comes like a miser dragging his gold, 
Never made spot of earth so bright 
As was the ground in the cave that 

night. 

Dead of night, and stormy weather ! 
Who should see us going together 
Under the black and dripping stone 
Of the cave from whence I came 
alone ! 

Next day as my boy sat on my knee 
He picked the gray hairs off from 

me, 
And told with eyes brimful of fear 
How a bird in the meadow near 

Over her clay-built nest had spread 
Sticks and leaves all bloody red, 
Brought from a cave by the side of the 

Sea 
Where some murdered man must be. 



THE MEASURE OF TIME. 

A breath, like the wind's breath, may 
carry 

A name far and wide, 
But the measure of time does not tally 

With any man's pride. 

'Tis not a wild chorus of praises, 
Nor chance, nor yet fate, — 

'T is the greatness born with him, and 
in him. 
That makes the man great. 



i6o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And when in the calm self-possession 

That birthright confers, 
The man is stretched out to her meas- 
ure, 

Fame claims him for hers. 

Too proud too fall back on achieve- 
ment, 

With work in his sight, 
His triumph may not overtake him 

This side of the night. 

And men, with his honors about them, 
His grave-mound may pass, 

Nor dream what a great heart lies under 
Its short knotty grass. 

But though he has lived thus unpros- 
pered, 

And died thus, alone, 
His face may not always be hid by 

A hand-breadth of stone. 

The long years are wiser than any 

Wise day of them all, 
And the hero at last shall stand up- 
right, — 

The base image fall. 

The counterfeit may for a season 

Deceive the wide earth, 
But the lie, waxing great, comes to 
labor. 

And truth has its birth. 



IDLE FEARS. 

In my lost childhood old folks said to 

me, 
" Now is the time and season of your 

bliss ; 
All joy is in the hope of joy to be, 
Not in possession ; and in after years 
You will look back with longing sighs 

and tears 
To the young days when you from care 

were free." 
It was not true ; they nurtured idle 

fears ; 
I never saw so good a day as this ! 

And youth and I have parted : long ago 
I looked into my glass, and saw one 

day 
A little silver line that told me so : 
At first I shut my eyes and cried, and 

then 



I hid it under girlish flowers, but when 
Persuasion would not make my mate to 

stay, 
I bowed my faded head, and said, 

"Amen !" 
And all my peace is since she went 

away. 

My window opens toward the autumn 

woods ; 
I see the ghosts of thistles walk the air 
O'er the long, level stubble-land that 

broods ; 
Beneath the herbless rocks that jutting 

lie, 
Summer has gathered her white family 
Of shrinking daisies ; all the hills are 

bare, 
And in the meadows not a limb of buds 
Through the brown bushes showeth 

anywhere. 

Dear, beauteous season, we must say 
good-bye, 

And can afford to, we have been so 
blest, 

And farewells suit the time ; the year 
doth lie 

With cloudy skirts composed, and pal- 
lid face 

Hid under yellow leaves, with touching 
grace, 

So that her bright-haired sweetheart of 
the sky 

The image of her prime may not dis- 
place. 



Do not look for wrong and evil — 
You will find them if you do ; 

As you measure for your neighbor 
He will measure back to you. 

Look for goodness, look for gladness, 
You will meet them all the while ; 

If you bring a smiling visage 
To the glass, you meet a smile. 



Our unwise purposes are wisely 
crossed ; 
Being small ourselves, we must essay 

small things : 
Th' adventurous mote, with wide, 
outwearied wings 
Crawling across a water-drop, is lost. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING, 



161 



hin rs, 
Two thirsty travelers chanced one day 

to meet 
Where a spring bubbled from the 
burning sand : 

drank out of the hollow of his 
hand, 
I found the water very cool and 
et. 

The other waited tor a smith to beat 

And fashion tor his use a golden cup ; 
And while he waited, tainting in the 
heat, 
The sunshine came and drank the 
fountain up ! 

In a green field two little flowers there 
were. 
And both were fair in th' face and 

tender-eyed : 
One took the light and dew that 
heaven supplied. 
And all the summer gusts were sweet 
with her. 

The other, to her nature false, denied 
That she had any need of sun and 

dew. 
And hung her silly head, and sickly 
grew: 
And frayed and faded, all untimely died. 

A vine o' th' bean, that had been early 
wed 
To a tall peach, conceiving that he 

hid 
Her glories from the world, unwisely 
slid 
Out of his arms, and vainly chafing, 
said : 

" This fellow is an enemy of mine, 
And dwarfs me with his shade : ? ' she 

would not see 
That she was made a vine, and not a 
tree, 
And that a tree is stronger than a vine. 



You may moan. — you may clasp him 
with soft arms forever, — 

He will still be a flinty hill, — you be a 
liver. 

- Tis willful, 'tis wicked to waste in de- 
spair 

The treasure so many are dying to 
share. 

The gifts that we have, Heaven lends 
for ri^ht using, 

And not for ignoring, and not for abus- 
ing. 

Let the moss have his love, and the 

grass and the dew, — 
By God's law he cannot be mated with 

you. 
His friend is the stubble, his life is the 

dust, 
You are not what you would, — you 

must be what you must. 

If into his keeping your fortune you 

cast, 
I tell you the end will be hatred at 

last, 
Or death through stagnation ; your rest 

is in motion ; 
The aim of your being, the cloud and 

the ocean. 

Love cannot be love, with itself set at 

strife ; 
To sin against Nature is death and not 

life. 
You may freeze in the shadow or seethe 

in the sun, 
But the oil and the water will not be at 

one. 

Your pride and your peace, when this 

passion is crossed, 
Will pay for the struggle whatever it 

cost ; 
But though earth dissolve, though the 

heavens should fall, 
To yourself, your Creator, be true first 

of all. 



TO A STAGNANT RIVER. 

O river, why lie with your beautiful 

face 
To the hill ? Can you move him away The heaviest yoke of the present hour 

from his place ? Is easy enough to bear, 

it 



Apart from the woes that are dead 
and gone, 
And the shadow of future care, 



1 62 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



COUNSEL. 

Seek not to walk by borrowed light, 

But keep unto thine own : 
Do what thou doest with thy might, 

And trust thyself alone ! 

Work for some good, nor idly lie 

Within the human hive ; 
And though the outward man should 
die, 

Keep thou the heart alive ! 

Strive not to banish pain and doubt, 

In pleasure's noisy din ; 
The peace thou seekest for without 

Is only found within. 

If fortune disregard thy claim, 
By worth, her slight attest ; 

Nor blush and hang the head for shame 
When thou hast done thy best 

What thy experience teaches true, 

Be vigilant to heed ; 
The wisdom that we suffer to, 

Is wiser than a creed. 

Disdain neglect, ignore despair, 
On loves and friendships gone 

Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, 
And mount right up and on ! 



LATENT LIFE. 



Though never shown by word or deed, 
Within us lies some germ of power, 

As lies unguessed, within the seed, 
The latent flower. 

And under every common sense 
That doth its daily use fulfill, 

There lies another, more intense, 
And beauteous still. 

This dusty house, wherein is shrined 
The soul, is but the counterfeit 

Of that which shall be, more refined, 
And exquisite. 

The light which to our sight belongs, 
Enfolds a light more broad and clear ; 

Music but intimates the songs 
We do not hear. 



The fond embrace, the tender kiss 

Which love to its expression brings, 
Are but the husk the chrysalis 



Wears on its wings. 



The vigor falling to decay, 

Hopes, impulses that fade and die, 
Are but the layers peeled away 



From life more tiig-h. 



When death shall come and disallow 
These rough and ugly masks we 
wear, 

I think, that we shall be as now, — 
Only more fair. 

And He who makes his love to be 
Always around me, sure and calm, 

Sees what is possible to me, 
Not what I am. 



HOW AND WHERE. 

How are we living? 
Like herbs in a garden that stand in a 

row, 
And have nothing to do but to stand 
there and grow ? 
Our powers of perceiving 
So dull and so dead, 
They simply extend to the objects 

about us, — 
The moth, having all his dark pleasure 
without us, — 
The worm in his bed ! 

If thus we are living, 
And fading and falling, and rotting, 

alas ! — 
Like the grass, or the flowers that grow 
in the grass, — 
Is life worth our having ? 
The insect a-humming — 
The wild bird is better, that sings as 

it flies, — 
The ox, that turns up his great face to 
the skies, 
When the thunder is coming. 

Where are we living ? 
In passion, and pain, and remorse do 

we dwell, — 
Creating, yet terribly hating, our hell ? 

No triumph achieving ? 

No grossness refining ? 



POEMS OF THOCCUr AND FEELING. 



l6 3 



The wild tree docs more ; for his coat 

of rough barks 
He trims with green mosses, and 
cheeks with the marks 
Of the long summer shining. 

We 're dying, not Hying : 

Our senses shut up, and our hearts 

taint and cold ; 
Upholding old things just because they 
are old ; 
Our good spirits grieving, 
We sutler our springs 
Of promise to pass without sowing the 

land. 
And hungry and sad in the harvest- 
time stand. 
Expecting good things ! 



THE FELLED TREE. 

They set me up, and bade me stand 

Beside a dark, dark sea, 
In the befogged, low-lying land 

Of this mortality. 

I slipped my roots round the stony 
soil 
Like rings on the hand of a bride. 
And my boughs took hold of the sum- 
mer's smile 
And grew out green and wide. 

Crooked, and shaggy on all sides. 

I was homeliest of trees, 
But the cattle rubbed their speckled 
hides 

Against my knotty knees ; 

And lambs, in white rows on the grass, 
Lay down within my shade : 

So I knew, all homely as I was, 
For a good use I was made. 

And my contentment served me well ; 

My heart grew strong and sweet, 
And ray shaggy bark cracked off and 
fell 

In layers at my feet. 

I felt when the darkest storm was rife 
The day of its wrath was brief. 

And that I drew from the centre of life 
The life of my smallest leaf. 

At last a woodman came one day 
With axe to a sharp edge ground, 



And hewed at my heart till I stood 
a-sway. 
But 1 never felt the wound. 

I knew immortal seed was sown 

Within me at my birth. 
And I tell without a single groan, 

With my green face to the earth. 

Xow all men pity me. and must, 

Who see me lie so low. 
But the Power that changes me to 
dust 

Is the same that made me grow. 



A DREAM. 

I DREAMED I had a plot of ground, 
Once when I chanced asleep to drop, 

And that a green hedge fenced it 
round, 
Cloudy with roses at the top. 



I saw a hundred mornings rise, — 
So far a little dream may reach, — 

And spring with summer in her eyes 
Making the chiefest charm of each. 

A thousand vines were climbing o'er 
The hedge, I thought, but as I tried 

To pull them down, for evermore 
The flowers dropt off" the other side ! 

Waking, I said, these things are signs 
Sent to instruct us that 't is ours 

Duly to keep and dress our vines, — 
Waiting in patience for the flowers. 

And when the angel feared of all 
Across my hearth its shadow spread, 
The rose that climbed my garden wall 
Has bloomed the other side, I said. 



WORK. 

Down and up, and up and down, 

Over and over and over ; 
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, 

Turn out the bright red clover. 
Work, and the sun your work will 
share, 

And the rain in its time will fall ; 
For Nature, she worketh everywhere, 

And the grace of God through all. 



1 64 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



With hand on the spade and heart in 
the sky, 
Dress the ground, and till it ; 
Turn in the little seed, brown and 
dry, 
Turn out the golden millet. 
Work, and your house shall be duly 
fed; 
Work, and rest shall be won ; 
I hold that a man had better be dead 
Than alive, when his work is done ! 

Down and up, and up and down, 

On the hill-top, low in the valley ; 
Turn in the little seed, dry and brown, 

Turn out the rose and lily. 
Work with a plan, or without a plan, 

And your ends they shall be shaped 
true ; 
Work, and learn at first hand, like a 
man, — 

The best way to know is to do/ 

Down and up till life shall close, 

Ceasing not your praises ; 
Turn in the wild white winter snows, 

Turn out the sweet spring daisies. 
Work, and the sun your work will 
share, 

And the rain in its time will fall ; 
For Nature, siie worketh everywhere, 

And the grace of God through all. 



COMFORT. 

Boatman, boatman ! my brain is wild, 
As wild as the stormy seas ; 

My poor little child, my sweet little 
child, 
Is a corpse upon my knees. 

No holy choir to sing so low, 
No priest to kneel in prayer, 

No tire-woman to help me sew 
A cap for his golden hair. 

Dropping his oars in the rainy sea, 

The pious boatman cried, 
Not without Him who is life to thee 

Could the little child have died ! 

His grace the same, and the same His 
power, 

Demanding our love and trust, 
Whether He makes of the dust a flower, 

Or changes a flower to dust. 



On the land and the water, all in all, 
The strength to be still or pray, 

To blight the leaves in their time to fall, 
Or light up the hills with May. 



FAITH AND WORKS. 

Not what we think, but what we do, 
Makes saints of us : all stiff and cold, 

The outlines of the corpse show 
through 
The cloth of gold. 

And in despite the outward sin, — 
Despite belief with creeds at strife, — 

The principle of love within 
Leavens the life. 

For, 't is for fancied good, I claim, 
That men do wrong, — not wrong's 
desire ; 
Wrapping themselves, as 't were, in 
flame 
To cheat the fire. 



Not 



what God gives, but what He 
takes, 
Uplifts us to the holiest height ; 
On truth's rough crags life's current 
breaks 



To diamond light. 



From transient evil I do trust 

That we a final good shall draw ; 
That in confusion, death, and dust 



Are light and law. 



That He whose glory shines among 
The eternal stars, descends to mark 

This foolish little atom swung 
Loose in the dark. 

But though I should not thus receive 
A sense of order and control. 

My God, I could not disbelieve 
My sense of soul. 

For though, alas ! I can but see 
A hand's breadth backward, or before, 
I am, and since I am, must be 
For evermore. 



THE RUSTIC PAINTER. 

His sheep went idly over the hills, 
Idly down and up, — 



rOEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



165 



As he sat and painted his sweetheart's 
face 
On a little ivory cup. 

All round him roses lay in the grass 
That were hardly out of buds : 

For sake of her mouth and cheek, I 
knew 
He had murdered them in the woods. 

The ant, that good little housekeeper, 

Was not at work so hard ; 
And yet the semblance of a smile 

Was all of his reward : 

And the golden-belted gentleman 

That travels in the air, 
Hummed not so sweet to the clover- 
buds 

As he to his picture there. 

The while for his ivory cup he made 

An easel of his knee, 
And painted his little sweetheart's face 

Truly and tenderly. 

Thus we are marking on all our work 
Whatever we have of grace ; 

As the rustic painted his ivory cup 
With his little sweetheart's face. 



ONE OF MANY. 

I knew a man — I know him still 
In part, in all I ever knew, — 

Whose life runs counter to his will, 
Leaving the things he fain would do, 

Undone. His hopes are shapes of 
sands, 

That cannot with themselves agree ; 
As one whose eager outstretched hands 

Take hold on water — so is he. 

Fame is a bauble, to his ken ; 

Mirth cannot move his aspect grim ; 
The holidays of other men 

Are only battle-days to him. 

He locks his heart within his breast, 

Believing life to such as he 
Is but a- change of ills, at best, — 

A crossed and crazy tragedy. 

His cheek is wan ; his limbs are faint 
With fetters which they never wore ; 



Xo wheel that ever crushed a saint, 
But breaks his body o'er and o'er. 

Though woman's grace he never sought 
By tender look, or word of praise. 

He dwells upon her in his thought, 
With all a lover's lingering phrase. 

A very martyr to the truth. 

All that 's best in him is belied : 
Humble, yet proud withal : in sooth 

His pride is his disdain of pride. 

He sees in what he does amiss 

A continuity of ill ; 
The next life dropping out of this, 

Stained with its many colors still. 

His kindliest pity is for those 

Who are the slaves of guilty lusts ; 

And virtue, shining till it shows 
Another's frailty, he distrusts. 

Nature, he holds, since time began 
Has been reviled, — misunderstood ; 

And that we first must love a man 
To judge him, — be he bad or good. 

Often his path is crook'd and low. 

And is so in his own despite ; 
For still the path he meant to go 
Runs straight, and level with the 
right. 
No heart has he to strive with fate 
For less things than our great men 
gone 
Achieved, who, with their single weight, 
Turned Time's slow wheels a century 
on. 

His waiting silence is his prayer ; 

His darkness is his plea for light ; 
And loving all men everywhere 

He lives, a more than anchorite. 

O friends, if you this man should 
see, 

Be not your scorn too hardly hurled, 
Believe me, whatsoe'er he be, 

There be more like him in the world. 



THE SHADOW. 

One summer night. 
The full moon, 'tired in her golden 
cloak, 



1 66 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Did beckon me, I thought ; and I 
awoke, 
And saw a light, 

Most soft and fair, 
Shine in the brook, as if, in love's dis- 
tress, 
The parting sun had shear'd a dazzling 
tress. 
And left it there. 

Toward the sweet banks 

Of the bright stream straightly I bent 

my way ; 
And in my heart good thoughts the 

while did stay, 
Giving God thanks. 

The wheat-stocks stood 
Along the field like little fairy men, 
And mists stole, white and bashful, 
through the glen, 

As maidens would. 

In rich content 
My soul was growing toward immortal 

height, 
When, lo ! I saw that by me, through 
the light, 
A shadow went. 

I stopped, afraid : 
It was the bad sign of some evil 

done : 
That stopping, too, right swiftly did I 
run ; 
So did the shade. 

At length I drew 
Close to the bank of the delightful 

brook, 
And sitting in the moonshine, turn'd 
to look ; 
It sat there too. 

Ere long I spied 
A weed with goodly flowers upon its 

top ; 
And when I saw that 'such sweet things 
did drop 
Black shadows, cried, — 

Lo ! I have found, 
Hid in this ugly riddle, a good sign ; 
My life is twofold, earthly and di- 
vine, — 

Buried and crown'd. 



Sown darkly ; raised 
Light within light, when death from 

mortal soil 
Undresses me, and makes me spirit- 
ual ; — 
Dear Lord, be praised. 



THE UNWISE CHOICE. 

Two young men, when I was poor, 
Came and stood at my open door ; 

One said to me, " I have gold to give ; " 
And one, " I will love you while I live ! " 

My sight was dazzled ; woe 's the day ! 
And I sent the poor young man away ; 

Sent him away, I know not where, 
And my heart went with him, unaware. 

He did not give me any sighs, 
But he left his picture in my eyes ; 

And in my eyes it has always been : 
I have no heart to keep it in ! 

Beside the lane with hedges sweet, 
Where we parted, never more to meet, 

He pulled a flower of love's own hue, 
And where it had been came out two ! 

And in th' grass where he stood, for 

years, 
The dews of th' morning looked like 

tears. 

Still smiles the house where I was born 
Among its fields of wheat and corn. 

Wheat and corn that strangers bind, — 
I reap as I sowed, and I sowed to th' 
wind. 

As one who feels the truth break 
through 

His dream, and knows his dream un- 
true, 

I live where splendors shine, and sigh, 
For the peace that splendor cannot 
buy ; 

Sigh for the day I was rich tho' poor, 
And saw th' two young men at my door ! 



TO EMS OF THOUGHT AXD FEELING. 



167 



PROVIDENCE, 

" From seeming evil, still educing good." 

The stone upon the wayside seed that 
fell, 

And kept the spring rain from it, 
kept it too 
From the bird's mouth ; and in that 
silent cell 
It quickened, after many days, and 
grew. 
Till, by-and-by, a rose, a single one, 
Lifted its little face into the sun. 

It chanced a wicked man approached 

one day. 
And saw the tender piteous look it 

wore : 
Perhaps one like it somewhere far 

away 
Grew in a garden-bed, or by the 

door 
That he in childish days had played 

around, 
For his knees, trembling, sunk upon 

the ground. 

Then, o'er this piece of bleeding 

earth, the tears 
Of penitence were wrung, until at 

last 
The golden key of love, that sin for 

years 
In his unquiet soul had rusted fast, 
Was loosened, and his heart, that very 

hour, 
Opened to God's good sunshine, like a 

flower. 



THE LIVING PRESENT. 

Friends, let us slight no pleasant 
spring 

That bubbles up in life's dry sands, 
And yet be careful what good thing- 

We touch with sacrilegious hands. 

Our blessings should be sought, not 
clai7)ied, — 
Cherished, not watched with jealous 
eye ; 
Love is too precious to be named, 
Save with a reverence deep and 
high. 



In all that lives, exists the power 
To avenge the invasion of its right ; 

We cannot bruise and break our flower, 
And have our flower, alive and 
bright. 

Let us think less of what appears, — 
More of what is j for this, hold I, 

It is the sentence no man hears 
That makes us live, or makes us die. 

Trust hearsay less ; seek more to 
prove 
And know if things be what they 
seem ; 
Not sink supinely in some groove, 
And hope and hope, and dream and 
dream. 

Some days must needs be full of 
gloom, 

Yet must we use them as we may ; 
Talk less about the years to come, — 

Live, love, and labor more, to-day. 

What our hand findeth, do with might ; 

Ask less for help, but stand or fall, 
Each one of us, in life's great fight, 

As if himself and God were all. 



THE WEAVER'S DREAM. 

He sat all alone in his dark little room, 
His fingers aweary with work at the 

loom, 
His eyes seeing not the fine threads, 

for the tears, 
As he carefully counted the months 

and the years 
He had been a poor weaver. 

Not a traveler went on the dusty high- 
way, 

But he thought, " He has nothing to 
do but be gay ; " 

No matter how burdened or bent he 
might be, 

The weaver believed him more happy 
than he, 
And sighed at his weaving. 

He saw not the roses so sweet and so 

red 
That looked through his window ; he 

thought to be dead 
And carried away from his dark little 

room, 



1 68 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Wrapt up in the linen he had in his 
loom, 
Were better than weaving. 

Just then a white angel came out of the 

skies, 
And shut up his senses, and sealed up 

his eyes, 
And bore him away from the work at 

his loom 
In a vision, and left him alone by the 

tomb 
Of his dear little daughter. 

" My darling ! " he cries, " what a 

blessing was mine ! 
How I sinned, having you, against 

goodness divine ! 
Awake ! O my lost one, my sweet 

one, awake ! 
And I never, as long as I live, for your 

sake, 
Will sigh at my weaving I " 

The sunset was gilding his low little 
room 

When the weaver awoke from his 
dream at the loom, 

And close at his knee saw a dear little 
head 

Alight with loag curls, — she was liv- 
ing, not dead, — 
His pride and his treasure. 

He winds the fine thread on his shut- 
tle anew, 

(At thought of his blessing 't was easy 
to do,) 

And sings as he weaves, for the joy in 
his breast, 

Peace cometh of striving, and labor is 
rest : 
Grown wise was the weaver. 



NOT NOW. 

The path of duty I clearly trace, 
I stand with conscience face to face, 

And all her pleas allow ; 
Calling and crying the while for 

grace,— 
" Some other time, and some other 
place : 
Oh, not to-day ; not now ! " 

I know 't is a demon boding ill, 

I know I have power to do if I will, 



And I put my hand to th' plough ; 
I have fair, sweet seeds in my barn, 

and lo ! 
When all the furrows are ready to sow, 

The voice says, " Oh, not now ! " 

My peace I sell at the price of woe ; 
In heart and in spirit I suffer so, 

The anguish wrings my brow \ 
But still I linger and cry for grace, — 
" Some other time, and some other 
place : 

Oh, not to-day ; not now ! " 

I talk to my stubborn heart and say, 
The work I must do I will do to-day ; 

I will make to the Lord a vow : 
And I will not rest and I will not sleep 
Till the vow I have vowed I rise and 
keep ; 

And the demon cries, " Not now ! " 

And so the days and the years go by, 
And so I register lie upon lie, 

And break with Heaven my vow ; 
For when I would boldly take my stand, 
This terrible demon stays my hand, — 

" Oh, not to-day : not now ! " 



CRAGS. 

There was a good and reverend man 
Whose day of life, serene and bright, 

Was wearing hard upon the gloom 
Beyond which we can see no light. 

And as his vision back to morn, 
And forward to the evening sped, 

He bowed himself upon his staff, 
And with his heart communing, said : 

From mystery on to mystery 
My way has been ; yet as I near 

The eternal shore, against the sky 
These crags of truth stand sharp and 
clear. 

Where'er its hidden fountain be, 
Time is a many-colored jet 

Of good and evil, light and shade, 
And we evoke the things we get: 

The hues that our to-morrows wear 
Are by our yesterdays forecast ; 
Our future takes into itself 

The true impression of our past. 



MS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



I69 



The attrition of conflicting thoughts 

To clear conclusions, wears the 

The love that seems to die, dies not, 
But is absorbed in larger love. 

We cannot cramp ourselves unharmed, 

In bonds of iron, nor of creeds : 
The rights that rightfully belong 

To man. are measured' by his needs. 

The daisy is entitled to 

The nurture of the dew and light : 
The green house of the grasshopper 

In his by Nature's sacred right. 



MAX. 

In what a kinglv fashion man doth 
dwell : 

He hath but to prefer 

His want, and Nature, like a servitor, 
Maketh him answer with some miracle. 

And yet his thoughts do keep along 
the ground, 
And neither leap nor run, 
Though capable to climb above the 
sun ; 
He seemeth free, and yet is strangely 
bound. 

What name would suit his case, or great 
or small ? 
Poor, but exceeding proud ; 
Importunate and still, humble and 
loud ; 
Most wise, and yet most ignorant, 
withal. 

The world that lieth in the golden air, 
Like a great emerald, 
Knoweth the law by which she is 
upheld, 
And in her motions keepeth steady 
there. 

But in his foolishness proud man defies 
The law, wherewith is bound 
The peace he seeks, and fluttering 
moth-like round 
Some dangerous light, experimenting, 
dies. 

And all his subtle reasoning can obtain 
To tell his fortune by, 



Is only that he liveth and must die. 
And dieth in the hope to live again. 



To SOLITUDE. . 

I am weary of the working. 

Weary of the long day's heat ; 
To thy comfortable bosom, 

Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet ? 

Weary of the long, blind struggle 
For a pathway bright and high, — 

Weary of the dimly dying 
Hopes that never quite all die. 

Weary searching a bad cipher 
For a good that must be meant ; 

Discontent with being weary, — 
Weary with my discontent. 

I am weary of the trusting 

Where my trusts but torments prove ; 
Wilt thou keep faith with me ? wilt 

thou 
Be my true and tender love ? 

I am weary drifting, driving 
Like a helmless bark at sea ; 

Kindly, comfortable spirit, 
Wilt thou give thyself to me ? 

Give thy birds to sing me sonnets ? 

Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss ? 
And thy mossy rocks to stand for 

The memorials of our bliss ? 

I in reverence will hold thee, 

Never vexed with jealous ills, 
Though thy wild and wimpling waters 
Wind about a thousand hills. 



THE LAW OF LIBERTY. 

This extent hath freedom's ground, - 
In my freedom I am bound 
Never any soul to wound. 

Not my own : it is not mine, 

Lord, except to make it thine, 

By good works through grace divine. 

Not another's : Thou alone 
Keepest judgment for thine own ; 
Only unto Thee is known 



170 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



What to pity, what to blame ; 
How the fierce temptation came : 
What is honor, what is shame. 

Right is bound in this — - to win 
Good till injury begin ; 
That, and only that, is sin. 

Selfish good may not befall 
Any man, or great or small ; 
Best for one is best for all. 

And who vainly doth desire 
Good through evil to acquire, 
In his bosom taketh fire. 

Wronging no man, Lord, nor Thee 
Vexing, I do pray to be 
In my soul, my body, free. 

Free to freely leave behind 
When the better things I find, 
Worser things, howe'er enshrined. 

So that pain may peace enhance, 
And through every change and chance 
I upon myself, advance*. 



MY CREED. 

I hold that Christian grace abounds 
Where charity is seen ; that when 

We climb to Heaven, 't is on the rounds 
Of love to men. 

I hold all else, named piety, 
A selfish scheme, a vain pretense ; 

Where centre is not — can there be 
Circumference ? 

This I moreover hold, and dare 

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — 

Whatever things be sweet or fair, 
Love makes them so. 

Whether it be the lullabies 

That charm to rest the nursling bird, 
Or that sweet confidence of sighs 

And blushes, made without a word. 

Whether the dazzling and the flush 
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, 

Or by some cabin door, a bush 
Of ragged flowers. 

'T is not the wide phylactery, 

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, 



That make us saints : we judge the tree 
By what it bears. 

And when a man can live apart 
From works, on theologic trust, 

I know the blood about his heart 
Is dry as dust. 



OPEN SECRETS. 

The truth lies round about us, all 
Too closely to be sought, — 

So open to our vision that 
'T is hidden to our thought. 

We know not what the glories 
Of the grass, the flower, may be ; 

We needs must struggle for the sight 
Of what we always see. 

Waiting for storms and whirlwinds, 
And to have a sign appear, 

We deem not God is speaking in 
The still small voice we hear. 

In reasoning proud, blind leaders of 
The blind, through life we go, 

And do not know the things we see, 
Nor see the things we know. 

Single and indivisible, 

We pass from change to change, 
Familiar with the strangest things, 

And with familiar, strange. 

We make the light through which we 
see 

The light, and make the dark : 
To hear the lark sing, we must be 

At heaven's gate with the lark. 



THE SADDEST SIGHT. 

As one that leadeth a blind man 

In a city, to and fro, 

Thought, even so, 
Leadeth me still wherever it will 

Through scenes of joy and woe. 

I have seen Lear, his white head 
crowned 
With poor straws, playing King ; 
And, wearying 
Her cheeks' young flowers " with true- 
love showers," 
I have heard Ophelia sing. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



171 



1 have been in battles, and I have seen 
mics at the martyrs hurled, — 
Seen th' flames curled 

Round foreheads bold, and lips whence 
rolled 
The litanies of the world. 

But of all sad sights that ever I saw, 
The saddest under the sun, 
[s a little une. 

Whose poor pale face was despoiled of 
ice 
lire yet its life begun. 

NO glimpse of the good green Nature 
gladden with sweet surprise 
The staring eyes, 
That only have seen, close walls be- 
tween, 
A hand-breadth of the skies. 

Ah, never a bird is heard to sing 
At the windows under ground, 
The long year round ; 

There, never the morn on her pipes of 
corn 
Maketh a cheerful sound. 

Oh, little white cloud of witnesses 
gainst your parentage, 
May Heaven assuage 
The woes that wait on your dark es- 
tate, — 
Unorphaned orphanage. 



THE BRIDAL HOUR. 

'• The moon's gray tent is up : another 
hour, 
And yet another one will bring the 
time 
To which, through many cares and 
checks, so slowly, 
The golden day did climb. 

' l Take all the books aw r ay, and let no 
noises 
Be in the house while softly I un- 
dress 
My soul from broideries of disguise, 
and wait for 
My own true love's caress. 

" The sweetest sound will tire to-night ; 
the dewdrops 
Setting the green ears in the corn 
and wheat, 



Would make a discord in the heart 
attuned to 
The bridegroom's coming feet. 

" Love ! blessed Love ! if we could 
hang our walls with 
The splendors of a thousand rosy 
Mays, 
Surely they would not shine so well as 
thou dost, 
Lighting our dusty days. 

" Without thee, what a dim and woeful 
story 
Our years would be, oh, excellence 
sublime ! 
Slip of the life eternal, brightly grow- 
ing 
In the low soil of time ! " 



IDLE. 

I heard the gay spring coming, 
I saw the clover blooming, 

Red and white along the mead- 
ows : 

Red and white along the streams ; 
I heard the bluebird singing, 
I saw the green grass springing, 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

I heard the ploughman's whistle, 
I saw the rough burr thistle 

In the sharp teeth of the har- 
row, — 

Saw the summer's yellow gleams 
In the walnuts, in the fennel, 
In the mulleins, lined with flannel, 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

I felt the warm, bright weather ; 
Saw the harvest, — saw them gather 

Corn and millet, wheat and apples, — 

Saw the gray barns with their seams 
Pressing wide, — the bare-armed shear- 
ers, — 
The ruddy water-bearers, — 

All as I lay a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming idle dreams. 

The bluebird and her nestling 
Flew away ; the leaves fell rustling, 
The cold rain killed the roses, 
The sun withdrew his beams ; 



172 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



No creature cared about me, 
The world could do without me, 
All as I lay a-dreaming, — 
A-dreaming idle dreams. 



GOD IS LOVE. 

Ah, there are mighty things under the 
sun, 
Great deeds have been acted, great 
words have been said, 
Not just uplifting some fortunate one, 
But lifting up all men the more by a 
head. 

Aye, the more by the head, and the 
shoulders too ! 
Ten thousand may sin, and a thou- 
sand may fall, 
And it may have been me, and it yet 
may be you, 
But the angel in one proves the angel 
in all. 

And whatever is mighty, whatever is 
high, 
Lifting men, lifting woman their nat- 
ures above, 
And close to the .kinship they hold to 
the sky, 
Why, this I affirm, that its essence 
is Love. 

The poorest, the meanest has right to 

his share — 
For the life of his heart, for the strength 

of his hand, 
'Tis the sinew of work, 'tis the spirit 

of prayer — 
And here, and God help me, I take 

up my stand. 

No pain but it hushes to peace in its 
arms, 
No pale cheek it cannot with kisses 
make bright, 
Its wonder of splendors has made the 
world's storms 
To shine as with rainbows, since 
first there was light. 

Go, bring me whatever the poets have 
praised, 
The mantles of queens, the red roses 
of May, 



I'll match them, I care not how grandly 
emblazed, 
With the love of the beggar who sits 
by the way. 

When I think of the gifts that have 

honored Love's shrine — 
Heart, hope, soul, and body, all 

mortal can give — 
For the sake of a passion superbly 

divine, 
I am glad, nay, and more, I am proud 

that I live ! 

Fair women have made them espousals 
with death, 
And through the white flames as 
through lilies have trod, 
And men have with cloven tongues 
preached for their faith, 
And held up their hands, stiff with 
thumb-screws, to God. 

I have seen a great people its vantage 
defer 
To the love that had moved it as love 
only can, 
A whole nation stooping with con- 
science astir 
To a chattel with crop ears, and call- 
ing it man. 

Compared, O my beautiful Country, to 
thee, 
In this tenderest touch of the man- 
acled hand, 
The tops of the pyramids sink to the 
sea, 
And the thrones of the earth slide to- 
gether like sand. 

Immortal with beauty and vital with 
youth, 
Thou standest, O Love, as thou al- 
ways hast stood 
From the wastes of the ages, proclaim- 
ing this truth, 
All peoples and nations are made of 
one blood. 

Ennobled by scoffing and honored by 

shame, 
The chiefest of great ones, the crown 

and the head, 
Attested by miracles done in thy name 
For the blind, for the lame, for the 

sick and the dead. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AAV> FEELING. 



173 



Because He in all things was tempted 
like me, 
Through the sweet human hope, by 
the cross that He bore, 

For the love which so much to the 
Marys could be, 
Christ Jesus the man, not the God, 
I adore. 



When all the stars were burning flowers 
That we might pluck and wear for 
crowns. 

We cannot choose but cry and cry — 
Oh, that its joys we might repeat ! 
When just its mutability 

Made all the sweetness of it sweet. 



LIFE'S MYSTERIES. 

Round and round the wheel doth run, 
And now doth rise, and now doth 
fall : 

How many lives we live in one. 

And how much less than one, in all ! 

The past as present as to-day — 

How strange, how wonderful ! it 
seems 

A player playing in a play, 

A dreamer dreaming that he dreams ! 

But when the mind through devious 
glooms 

Drifts onward to the dark amain. 
Her wand stern Conscience reassumes, 

And holds us to ourselves again. 

Vague reminiscences come back 

Of things we seem, in part, to have 
known. 

And Fancy pieces what they lack 
With shreds and colors all her own. 

Fancy, whose wing so high can soar, 
Whose vision hath so broad a glance, 

We feel sometimes as if no more 
Amenable to change and chance. 

And yet, one tiny thread being broke — 
One idol taken from our hands. 

The eternal hills roll up like smoke, 
The earth's foundations shake like 
sands ! 

Ah ! how the colder pulse still starts 
To think of that one hour sublime, 

We hugged heaven down into our 
hearts, 
And clutched eternity in time ! 

When love's dear eyes first looked in 
ours. 
When love's clear brows were strange 
to frowns, 



Close to the precipice's brink 

We press, look down, and, while we 
quail 
From the bad thought we dare not 
think. 
Lift curiously the awful vail. 

We do the thing we would not do — 
Our wills being set against our wills, 

And suffer o'er and o'er anew 
The penalty our peace that kills. 

Great God, we know not what we know 

Or what we are, or are to be ! 
We only trust we cannot go 
sin's 
thee. 



Through 



disgrace outside of 



And trust that though we are driven in 
And forced upon the name to call 

At last, by very strength of sin, 
Thou wilt .have mercy on us all ! 



We are the mariners, and God the Sea, 
And though we make false reckon- 
ings, and run 
Wide of a righteous course, and are 
undone, 
Out of his deeps of love we cannot be. 

For by those heavy strokes we misname 
ill, 
Through the fierce fire ot sin, through 
tempering doubt, 
Our natures more and more are beaten 
out 
To perfecter reflections of his will ! 



The best man should never pass by 
The worst, but to brotherhood true, 

Entreat him thus gently, " Lo, I 
Am tempted in all things as you." 

Of one dust all peoples are made, 
One sky doth above them extend, 



174 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CA%Y. 



And whether through sunshine or shade 
Their paths run, they meet at the end. 

And whatever his honors may be, — 
Of riches, or genius, or blood, 

God never made any man free 
To find out a separate good. 



PLEDGES. 

Sometimes the softness of the embrac- 
ing air, 
The tender beauty of the grass and 
sky, 
The look of still repose the mountains 
wear, 
The sea-waves that beside each 
other lie 
Contented in the sun — the flowery 
gleams 
Of gardens by the doors of cottages, 
The sweet, delusive blessedness of 
dreams, 
The pleasant murmurs of the forest 
trees 
Clinging to one another — all I see, 

And hear, and all that fancy paints, 
Do touch me with a deep humility, 
And make me be ashamed of my 
complaints,. 
Then, in my meditations, I resolve 
.That I will never, while I live, again 
Ruffle the graceful ministries of love 
With brows distrustful, or with 
wishes vain. 
Then I make pledges to my heart and 
say 
We two will live serener lives hence- 
forth ; 
For what is all the outward beauty 
worth, 
The golden opening of the sweetest 
day 
That ever shone, if we arise to hide, 
Not from ourselves, but from men's 
■ eyes away, 
The last night's petulance unpacified ! 



PROVERBS IN RHYME. 

Time makes us eagle-eyed : 

Our fantasies befriend us in our 
youth, 
And build the shadowy tents wherein 
we hide » 

Out of the glare of truth. 



Make no haste to despise 
The proud of spirit: ofttimes pride 
but is 
An armor worn to shield from insolent 
eyes 
Our human weaknesses. 

Be slow to blame his course 

Or name him coward who disdains to 
fight: " • 

Courage is just a blind impelling force, 

And often wrong as right. 

Condemn not her whose hours 

Are not all given to spinning nor to 
care : 
Has not God planted every path with 
flowers 
Whose end is to be fair ? 

Think not that he is cold 

Who runneth not your proffered 
hand to touch : 
On feeling's heights 't is wise the step 
to hold 
From trembling overmuch ; 

And though its household sweets 
Affection may through daily channels 
give, 

The heart is chary, and ecstatic beats 
Once only while we live. 



FAME. 

Fame guards the wreath we call a 
crown 

With other wreaths of fire, 
And dragging this or that man down 

Will not raise you the higher ! 
Fear not too much the open seas, 

Nor yet yourself misdoubt ; 
Clear the bright wake of geniuses, 

Then steadily steer out. 
That wicked men in league should 
be 

To push your craft aside, 
Is not the hint of modesty, 

But the poor conceit of pride. 



GENIUS. 

A cunning and curious splendor, 
That glorifies commonest things — 

Palissy, with clay from the river, 
Moulds cups for the tables of kings. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING, 



175 



A marvel of sweet and wise madness. 
That passes our skill to define : 

It clothes the poor peasant with grand- 
eur. 
And turns his rude hut to a shrine. 

Full many a dear little daisy 

Had passed from the light of the sun, 
Ere Burns, with his pen and his plough- 
share. 

Upturned and immortalled that one. 

And just with a touch of its magic 
It gives to the poet's rough rhyme 
mttking that makes the world lis- 
ten. 
And will, to the ending of time. 

It puts a great price upon shadows — 
Holds visions, all rubies above, 

And shreds of old tapestries pieces 
To legends of glory and love. 

The ruin it builds into beauty, 
Uplifting the low-lying towers, 

Makes green the w r aste place with a 
garden, 
And shapes the dead dust into flowers. 

It shows us the lovely court ladies, 
All shining in lace and brocade ; 

The knights, for their gloves who did 
battle, 
In terrible armor arrayed. 

It gives to the gray head a glory, 
And grace to the eyelids that weep, 

And makes our last enemy even, 
To be as the brother of sleep. 

A marvel of madness celestial, 
That causes the weed at our feet, 

The thistle that grows at the wayside, 
To somehow look strange and be 
sweet. 

No heirs hath it, neither ancestry ; 

But just as it listeth, and when, 
It seals with its own royal signet 

The foreheads of women and men. 



IN BONDS. 

While shines the sun, the storm even 
then 
Has struck his bargain with the 
sea — 



Oh, lives of women, lives of men, 
How pressed, how poor, how pinched 

ye be \ 

It is as if, having granted power 

Almost omnipotent to man, 
Heaven grudged the splendor of the 
dower, 

And going back upon her plan, 

Mortised his free feet in the ground, 
Closed him in walls of ignorance. 

And all the soul within him bound 
In the dull hindrances of sense. 

Hence, while he goads his will to 
rise, 

As one his fallen ox might urge, 
The conflict of the impatient cries 

Within him wastes him like a scourge. 

Even as dreams his days depart. 
His work no sure foundation forms, 

Immortal yearnings in his heart, 
And empty shadows in his arms ! 

It is as if, being come to land, 

Some pestilence, with fingers black, 
Loosed from the wheel the master 
hand 
And drove the homesick vessel 
back ; 

As if the nurslings of his care 

Chilled him to death with their em- 
brace ; 
As if that she he held most fair 

Turned round and mocked him to 
his face. 

And thus he stands, and ever stands, 
Tempted without and torn with- 
in ; 
Ashes of ashes in his hands, 

Famished and faint, and sick with 
sin. 

Seeing the cross, and not the crown ; 
The o'erwhelming flood, and not the 
ark ; 
Till gap by gap his faith throws down 
Its guards, and leaves him to the 
dark. 

And when the last dear hope has fled, 
And all is weary, dreary pain, 

That enemy, most darkly dread, 
Grows pitiful, and snaps the chain. 



176 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



NOBILITY. 

True worth is in being, not seeming, — 

In doing each day that goes by 
Some little good — not in the dream- 
ing 

Of great things to do by and by. 
For whatever men say in blindness, 

And spite of the fancies of youth, 
There 's nothing so kingly as kind- 
ness, 

And nothing so royal as truth. 

We get back our mete as we meas- 
ure — 
We cannot do wrong and feel right, 
Nor can we give pain and gain pleas- 
ure, 
For justice avenges each slight. 
The air for the wing of the sparrow, 
The bush for the robin and wren, 
But alway the path that is narrow 
And straight, for the children of 
men. 

'T is not in the pages of story 

The heart of its ills to beguile, 
Though he who makes courtship to 
glory 

Gives all that he hath for her smile. 
For when from her heights he has won 
her, 

Alas ! it is only to prove 
That nothing 's so sacred as honor, 

And nothing so loyal as love ! 

We cannot make bargains for blisses, 

Nor catch them like fishes in nets : 
And sometimes the thing our life 
misses, 

Helps more than the thing which it 
gets. 
For good lieth not in pursuing, 

Nor gaining of great nor of small, 
But just in the doing, and doing 

As we would be done by, is all. 

Through envy, through malice, through 
hating, 

Against the world, early and late, 
No jot of our courage abating — 

Our part is to work and to wait. 
And slight is the sting of his trouble 

Whose winnings are less than his 
worth ; 
For he who is honest is noble. 

Whatever his fortunes or birth. 



TO THE MUSE. 

Phantoms come and crowd me thick, • 
And my heart is sick, so sick ; 
Kindness no more refresh 
Brain nor body, mind nor flesh. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, comfort me 
With thy heavenly company. 

Thieves beset me on my way, 

Day and night and night and day, 

Stealing all the lovely light 

That did make my dreams so bright. 

Good Muse, sweet Muse, hide my 

treasures 
High among immortal pleasures. 

Friendship's watch is weary grown, 
And I lie alone, alone ; 
Love against me flower-like closes, 
Blushing, opening toward the roses. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, keep my friend 
To the sad and sunless end. 

Oh, the darkness of the estate 
W T here I, stript and bleeding, wait. 
Torn with thorns and with wild woe, 
In my house of dust so low ! 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, make my faith 
Strong to triumph over death. 

Rock me both at morns and eves 
In a cradle lined with leaves — 
Light as winds that stir the willows 
Stir my hard and heavy pillows. 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, rock me soft, 
Till my thoughts soar all aloft. 

Seal my eyes from earthly things 
With the shadow of thy wings, 
Fill with songs the wildering spaces, 
Till I see the old, old faces, 
Rise forever, on forever — 
Good Muse, sweet Muse, leave me 
never. 



Her voice was sweet and low ; her face 
No words can make appear, 

For it looked out of heaven but long 
enough 
To leave a shadow here. 

And I only knew that I saw the face. 

And saw the shadow fall, 
And that she carried my heart away 

And keeps it ; that is all. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



177 



NO RING. 

What is it that doth spoil the fair 
adorning 
With which ner body she would dig- 
nify, 
When from her bed she rises in the 
morning 
To comb. and plait, and tie 
Her hair with ribbons, colored like the 
skv ? 



DOS 

When she would sit and sine: the 



What* is it that her pleasure discom 
DOS 

en she woul 
sun away — 
Making her see dead roses in red 
ses, 
And in the downfall gray 
A blight that seems the world to over- 
^ lay ? 

What is it makes the trembling look of 
trouble 
About her tender mouth and eyelids 
fair ? 
Ah me, ah me ! she feels her heart 
beat double. 
Without the mother's prayer, 
And her wild fears are more than she 
can bear. 

To the poor sightless lark new powers 
are given, 
Not only with a golden tongue to 
sing. 
But still to make her wavering way 
toward heaven 
With undiscerning wing ; 
But what to her doth her sick sorrow 
bring ? 

Her days she turns, and yet keeps 
overturning, 
And her flesh shrinks as if she felt 
the rod : 
For 'gainst her will she thinks hard 
things concerning 
The everlasting God, 
And longs to be insensate like the 
clod. 

Sweet Heaven, be pitiful ! rain down 
upon her 
The saintly charities ordained for 
such ; 

12 



She was so poor in everything but 

honor. 
And she loved much — loved 

much ! 
Would, Lord, she had thy garment's 

hem to touch. 

Haply, it was the hungry heart within 
her. 
The woman's heart, denied its nat- 
ural right, 
That made her the thing men call sin- 
ner, 
Even in her own despite : 
Lord, that her judges might receive 
their sight ! 



TEXT AND MORAL. 

Full early in that dewy time of year 
When wheat and barley fields are 

gay and green, 
And when the flag uplifts his dull gray 

spear, 
And cowslips in their yellow coats 

are seen, 
And every grass-tuft by the common 

ways 
Holdeth some red-mouthed flower to 

give it praise : 

Just as the dawn was at that primal hour 
That brings such tender golden 

sweetness in, 
Ere yet the sun had left his eastern 

bower 
And set upon the hills his rounded 

chin, 
I heard a little song — three notes — 

not more — 
Plained like a low petition at my door. 

And all that day and other clays I heard 
The same low asking note, and then 

I found 
My beggar in the likeness of a bird. 
Surely, I said, she hideth some deep 

wound 
Under the speckled beauty of her 

wing, 
That she doth seem to rather cry than 

sing. 

Haply some treacherous man, and evil- 
eyed, 
Hath spoiled her nest or snared her 
lovely mate, 



i 7 8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



But while I spoke, a bird unharmed I 

spied 
High in the elm-top, all his heart 

elate, 
And splitting with its joy his shining 

bill, 
Unmindful of that low, sad " trill-a- 

trill ! " 

At sunset came my boys with cheeks 
ablush, 
And fairly flying on their arms and 

"-to 3 ) 

To tell that they had found within a 
bush 
A bird's-nest, lined with little rose- 
leaf eggs ! 

Then, inly musing, I renewed my 
quest 

Knowing that no bird singeth on her 
nest. 

And still, the softest morns, the sweet- 
est eves, 
And when from out the midnight 
blue and still, 

The tender moon looked in between 
the leaves, 

That little, plaining, pleading trill-a- 
trill ! 

Would tremble out, and fall away, and 
fade, 

And so I mused and mused, until I 
made 

A text at last of the melodious cry, 
And drew this moral (was it fetched 
too far ?) 
Life's inequalities so underlie 

The things we have, so rest in what 
we are, 
That each must steadfast to his nature 

keep, 
And one must soar and sing, and one 
must weep. 



TO MY FRIEND. 

If we should see one sowing seed 

With patient care and toil and pain, 
Then to some other garden speed 
And sow again ; 

And so right on from day to day, 
And so right on through months and 
years, 



Watering the furrows. all the way 
With rain of tears ; 

Ne'er gladdened by the yellowing top 

Of harvest, nor of ripened rose, 
Till suddenly the plough should stop, — 
The work-day close ; 

Should we not, as hte day ran by, 

Wonder to see him take no ease, 
And cry at nightfall, " Vanity 
Of Vanities ! " 

And yet 't is thus, my friend, the hours 

And days go by, with you and.me. 
We, too, are sowing seeds of flowers 
We never see. 

Sometimes we sow in soil of sin ; 
Sometimes where choking thorns 
abound ; 
And sometimes cast our good seed in 
Dry, stony ground. 

Our stalks spring up and fade and die 

Under the burning noontide heat, 
And hopes and plans about us lie 
All incomplete ; 

And as the toilsome days go by 
Unrespited with flowery ease, 
Angels may cry out, "Vanity 
Of Vanities ! " 

Oh, when, fruitionless, the night 
Descends upon our day of ills, 
God grant we find our harvests white 
On heavenly hills. 



ONE OF MANY. 

Because I have not done the things I 
know 
I ought to do, my very soul is sad ; 
And furthermore, because that I have 
had 
Delights that should have made to 
overflow 
My cup of gladness, and have not 
been glad. 

All in the midst of plenty, poor I live ; 
My house, my friend, with heavy 

heart I see, 
As if that mine they were not meant 
to be ; 



roi:.vs ('/• moron r and feelixo. 



179 



For oi the sweetness of the things I 
have 
A churlish conscience disposs 
me. 

I do desire, nay, long, to put my powers 
To better .service than I vet have 

done — 
Not hither, thither, without purpose 
rim. 
And gather just a handful of the Bowers, 
And catch a little sunlight of the sun. 

Lamenting all the night and all the day 
Occasion lost, and losing in lament 
The golden chances that I know 
were meant 
For wiser uses — asking overpay 
When nothing has been earned, and 
all was lent. 

Keeping in dim and desolated ways, 
And where the wild winds whistle 

loud anil shrill 
Through leafless bushes, and the 
birds are still, 
And where the lights are lights of other 
clays — 
A sad insanity o'ermastering will. 

And saddest of the sadness is to know- 
It is not fortune's fault, but only 

mine. 
That far away the hills of roses 
shine — 
And tar away the pipes of pleasure 
blow — 
That we, and not our stars, our fates 
assign. 



LIGHT. 

Be not much troubled about many 
things. 

Fear often hath no whit of substance 
in it. 
And lives but just a minute ; 

While from the very snow the wheat- 
blade springs. 
And light is like a flower. 

That bursts in full leaf from the darkest 
hour. 
And He who made the night, 

Made, too, the flowery sweetness of 
the light 

Be it thy task, through his good grace, 
to win it. 



TRl S I'. 

SOMETIMES when hopes have vanished, 

one and all. 
Soft lights dmp round about me in 

their s 
As if there had been cast across 

Heaven's wall 
Handtuls of roses clown upon my 

bed : 
Then through my darkness pleasures 

come in crowds. 
Shining like larks' wings in the sombre 

clouds, 

And I am fed with sweetness, as of 
dew 
Strained through the leaves of pan- 
sies at clay dawn : 

But not the flowery lights that over- 
strew 
The bed my weary body rests upon, 

Is it that maketh all my house so 
bright. 

And feedeth all my soul with such de- 
light. 

Nay, ne'er could heavenly, veritable 
flowers 
Make the rude time to run so 
smoothly by, 

And tie with amity the alien hours, 
As might some maiden, with her rib- 
bon, tie 

A bunch of homely posies into one. 

Making all fair, when none were fair 
alone. 

But lying disenchanted of my fear, 
'Xeath the gold borders of my 
" coverlid " 

So overstrown, I feel my flesh so near 
Things lovelv, that, my body being 
hid 

Out of the sunshine, shall not harm en- 
dure, 

But mix with daisies, and grow fair 
and pure. 

Oh, comfortable thought ! yet not of 
this 
Get I the peace that drieth all my 
tears : 
For, w rapped within this truth, another 
is 
Sweeter and stronger to dispel my 
fear» : 



180 THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 


If through its change my flesh shall 


Why are we thus in our meeting 


death defy 


asunder ? 


Surely my soul shall not be left to die. 


Why are our pulses so slow and so dull ? 


Our God, who taketh knowledge of the 


Fruitless, fruitionless — Life is frui- 


flowers 


tionless — 


Making our bodies change to things 


Never the heaped up and generous 


so fine, 


measure — 


Knoweth the insatiate longings that 


Never the substance of satisfied 


are ours, 


pleasure — 


For fadeless blooms and suns that 


Never the moment with rapture elate — 


always shine. 


But draining the chalice, we long for 


His name is Love, and love can work 


the chalice, 


no ill ; 


And live as an alien inside of our 


Hence, though He slay me, I will trust 


palace, 


Him still. 


Bereft of our title and deeds of estate. 




Pitiful — Life is so poor and so piti- 


LIFE. 


ful- 




Cometh the cloud on the goldenest 


Solitude — Life is inviolate soli- 


weather — 


tude — 


Briefly the man and his youth stay 


Never was truth so apart from the 


together — 


dreaming 


Falleth the frost ere the harvest is in, 


As lieth the selfhood inside of the 


And conscience descends from the 


seeming, 


open aggression 


Guarded with triple shield out of all 


To timid and troubled and tearful 


quest, 


concession, 


So that the sisterhood nearest and 


And downward and down into parley 


sweetest, 


with sin. 


So that the* brotherhood kindest, 




completest, 


Purposeless — Life is so wayward and 


Is but an exchanging of signals at best. 


purposeless — 




Always before us the object is shift- 


Desolate — Life is so dreary and deso- 


ing. 


late — 


Always the means and the method 


Women and men in the crowd meet 


are drifting, 


and mingle, 


We rue what is done — what is undone 


Yet with itself every soul standeth 


deplore — 


single, 


More striving for high things than 


Deep out of sympathy moaning its 


things that are holy. 


moan — 


And so we go down to the valley so 


Holding and having its brief exulta- 


lowly 


tion — 


Wherein there is work, and device 


Making its lonesome and low lamen- 


never more. 


tation — 




Fighting its terrible conflicts alone. 


Vanity, vanity — all would be vanity, 




Whether in seeking or getting our 


Separate — Life is so sad and so sep- 


pleasures — 


arate — 


Whether in spending or hoarding 


Under love's ceiling with roses for 


our treasures — 


lining, 


Whether in. indolence, whether in 


Heart mates with heart in a tender 


strife — 


entwining. 


Whether in .easting and whether in 


Yet never the sweet cup of love filleth 


fasting, 


full — 


But for our faith in the Love ever- 


Eye looks in eye with a questioning 


lasting — 


wonder, 


But for the life that is better than life. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



181 



PLEA FOR CHARITY. 

If one had never seen the full com- 
pleteness 
Of the round year, but tarried half 
the way. 
How should he guess the fair and flow- 
cry sweetness 
That cometh with the May — 
Guess of the bloom, and of the rainy 
sweetness 
That come in with the May ! 

Suppose he had but heard the winds 
a-blowing, 

And seen the brooks in icy chains 
fast bound. 
How should he guess that waters in 
their flowing 
Could make so glad a sound — 
Guess how their silver tongues should 
be set going 
To such a tuneful sound ! 

Suppose he had not seen the bluebirds 
winging, 
Xor seen the day set, nor the morn- 
ing rise, 
Xor seen the golden balancing and 
swinging 
Of the gay butterflies — 
Who could paint April pictures, worth 
the bringing 
To notice of his eyes ? 

Suppose he had not seen the living 
daisies, 
Xor seen the rose, so glorious and 
bright, 
Were it not better than your far-off 
praises 
Of all their lovely light, 
To give his hands the holding of the 
daisies, 
And of the roses bright ? 

O Christian man, deal gently with the 
sinner — 
Think what an utter wintry waste is 
his 
Whose heart of love has never been 
the winner, 
To know how sweet it is — 
Be pitiful, O Christian, to the sin- 
ner, 
Think what a world is his ! 



He never heard the lisping and the 
trembling 
Of Eden's gracious leaves about his 
head — 
His mirth is nothing but the poor dis- 
sembling 
Of a great soul unfed — 
Oh, bring him where the Eden-leaves 
are trembling, 
And give him heavenly bread. 

As Winter doth her shriveled branches 
cover 
With greenness, knowing spring- 
time's soft desire, 
Even so the soul, knowing Jesus for a 
lover, 
Puts on a new attire — 
A garment fair as snow, to meet the 
Lover 
Who bids her come up higher. 



SECOND SIGHT. 

My thoughts, I fear, run less to right 
than wrong, 
And I am selfish, sinful, being hu- 
man ; 
But yet sometimes an impulse sweet 
and strong 
Touches my heart, for I am still a 
woman ; 
And yesterday, beside my cradle sit- 
ting, 
And broidering lilies through my 
lullabies, 
My heart stirred in me, just as if the 
flitting 
Of some chance angel touched me, 
and my eyes 
Filled all at once to tender overflow- 
ing, 
And my song ended — breaking up 
in sighs ; 
I could not see the lilies I was sew- 
ing 
For the hot tears, thick coming to 
my eyes. 

The unborn years, like rose-leaves in a 
flame, 

Shriveled together, and this vision 
came, 

For I was gifted with a second see- 
ing : 



182 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



'T was night, and darkly terrible with 

storms, 
And I beheld my cherished darling 

fleeing 
In all her lily broideries from my 

arms — 
A babe no longer. Wild the wind was 

blowing, 
And the snows round her soddened as 

they fell ; 
And when a whisper told me she was 

going 
That way wherein the feet take hold 

on hell, 
I could not cry, I could not speak nor 

stir, 
Held in mute torture by my love of 

her. 

We make the least ado o'er greatest 
troubles ; 
Our very anguish doth our anguish 
drown ; 
The sea forms only just a few faint 
bubbles 
Of stifled breathing when a ship goes 
down. 

'T was but a moment — then the merry 

laughter. 
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's 

knee 
Rippled across the mists of fantasy ; 
And sunshine, stretching like a golden 

rafter 
From cornice on to cornice o'er my 

head, 
Scattered the darkness, and my 

vision fled. 

Times fall when Fate just misses of 
her blows, 
And, being warned, the victim slips 
aside ; 
And thus it was with me — the idle 
shows, 
The foolish pomp of vanity and 
pride, 
The work of cunning hands and curious 

looms, 
Shining about my house like poppy- 
blooms, 
Like poppy-blooms had drowsed me, 
heart and brain ; 
And all the currents of my blood were 
setting 
To that bad dullness that is worse 
than pain. 



The moth will spoil the garment with 

its fretting 
Surer and faster than the work-day 

wear. 
The quickening vision came — not all 

too late : 
I saw that there were griefs for me 

to share, 
And the poor worldling missed the 

worldling's fate. 

There was my baby — there was I, the 
mother, 
Broidering my lilies by the golden 
gleam 
Of the glad sunshine ; but was there 
no other 
Fleeing, as fled the phantom in my 
dream ? 
Were there no hearts, because of their 

great loving, 
Bound to the wheel of torture past all 
moving ? 
No storms of awful sorrow to be 

stemmed ? 
Yea, out of my own heart I stood 
condemned. 

Leaving the silken splendor of my 
rooms, 
The sunshine stretching like a 

golden rafter 
From cornice on to cornice, and the 
laughter 
Of my sweet baby on the nurse's 

knee, 
Calling me back, and almost keeping 

me — 
Leaving my windows bright with flow- 
ery blooms, 
I passed adown my broad embla- 
zoned hall, 
Along the soft mats, tufted thick 

across - — 
Scarlet and green, like roses grown 
with moss ; 
And parting from my pleasures, one 
and all, 
Threaded my way through many a nar- 
row street, 
From whose low cellars, lit with 
9 scanty embers, 
Came great-eyed children, with bare, 
shivering feet, 
And wondered at me, through the 

doors gaped wide, 
Till they were crowded back, or 
pushed aside, 



i 



/■oems of ri/orciir and feeling. 



183 



By some lean-elbowed man, or flabby 

crone. 
Upon whose foreheads discontent had 

grown, 
As grows the mildew on decaying 

timbers. 

"All thine is mine." came to me from 

the fall 
Of every beggar's footstep, and the 

glooms 
That hung around held yet this other 

call : 
u Who to hini>clt lives only is not liv- 
ing ; 
He hath no gain who does not get by 

giving." 
And so I came beneath the cold gray 

wall 
That shapes the awful prison of the 

Tombs. 
Humility had been my gentle guide — 
I saw her not, a heavenly spirit 

she — 
And when the fearful door swung open 

wide 
I heard her pleasant steps go in with 

me. 

Oh for a tongue, and oh ! for words to 
tell 
Of the young creature, masked with 
sinful guise, 
That stood before me in her narrow 
cell 
And dragged my heart out with her 
pleading eyes. 

I shook from head to foot, and could 
not stir — 

Afraid, but not so much afraid of her 

As of myself — made like her — of one 
dust, 

And holding an immortal soul in trust 

The same as she — perhaps not even 
so good, 

Tempted with her temptations. Was 't 
for me 

To hold myself apart and call her sin- 
ner ? 

Not so ; and silent, face to face we 
stood, 

And as some traveler in the night be- 
lated 

Waits for the star he knows must rise, 
so I 

Patient within the prison darkness 
waited, 



Trusting to see the better self within 

her 
Rise from the ruins of her womanhood. 

Nor did I wait in vain. At last, at 

last. 
Her eager hand reached forth and held 

me fast, 
And drawing just a little broken 

breath. 
As if she stood upon that narrow 

ground 
That lies a-tremble betwixt life and 

death, 
Her yearning, fearful soul expression 

found : 

" I 'm dying — dying, and your dewy 

hand 
Is like the shadow to the sickly plant 
Whose root is in the dry and burning 

sand. 
Pity, sweet Pity — that is what I 

want. 
You bring it — ah ! you would not, if 

you knew. 
I clasped her closer : " Friend, dear 

friend, I do ! 
I know it all — from first to last," I 

said. 
" 'T was but a blind, mistaken search 

for good ; 
Premeditated evil never led 
To this sad end." As one entranced 

she stood, 
And I went on : " Nay, but 't is not 

the end : 
God were not God if such a thing 

could be — 
If not in time, then in eternity, 
There must be room for penitence to 

mend 
Life's broken chance, else noise of wars 
Would unmake heaven. 

The shadows of the bars 
That darkened the poor face like dev- 
ils' fingers 
Faded away, and still in memory lingers 
The look of tender, tearful, glad sur- 
prise 
That brought the saint's soul to the 
sinner's eyes. 

Life out of death ; it seemed to me as 
when 
The anchor, clutching, holds the 
driven ship, 



*r 



184 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And to the cry scarce formed upon 
her lip, 
" Lord God be praised ! " I answered 
with " Amen." 



LIFE'S ROSES. 

When the morning first uncloses, 
And before the mists are gone, 

All the hills seem bright with roses, 
Just a little farther on ! 

Roses red as wings cf starlings, 

And with diamond dew-drops wet ; 
"Wait," says Patience, "wait, my dar- 
lings — 

Wait a little longer yet ! " 
So, with eager, upturned faces, 

Wait the children for the hours 
That shall bring them to the places 

Of the tantalizing flowers. 

Wild with wonder, sweet with guesses, 

Vexed with only fleeting fears ; 
So the broader day advances, 

And the twilight disappears. 
Hands begin to clutch at posies, 

Eyes to flash with new delight, 
And the roses, oh ! the roses, 

Burning, blushing full in sight ! 

Now with bosoms softly beating, 

Heart in heart, and hand in hand, 
Youths and maids together meeting 

Crowd the flowery harvest land. 
Not a thought of rainy weather, 

Nor of thorns to sting and grieve, 
Gather, gather, gather, gather, 

All the care is what to leave ! 

Noon to afternoon advances, 
Rosy red grows russet brown ; 

Sad eyes turn to backward glances, 
So the sun of youth goes down. 

And as rose by rose is withered, 

Sober sight begins to find 

Many a false heart has been gath- 
ered, 
Many a true one left behind. 
Hands are clasped with fainter hold- 
ing, 
Unfilled souls begin to sigh 
For the golden, glad unfolding ' 

Of the morn beyond the sky. 



SECRET WRITING. 

From the outward world about us, 

From the hurry and the din. 
Oh, how little do we gather 

Of the other world within ! 
For the brow may wear upon it 

All the seeming of repose 
When the brain is worn and weary, 

And the mind oppressed with woes : 
And the eye may shine and sparkle 

As it were with pleasure's glow, 
When 't is only just the flashing 

Of the fires of pain below. 
And the tongue may have the sweetness 

That cloth seem of bliss a part, 
When 't is only just the tremble 

Of the weak and wounded heart. 
Oh, the cheek may have the color 

Of the red rose, with the rest, 
When 't is only just the hectic 

Of the dying leaf, at best. 

But when the hearth is kindled, 

And the house is hushed at night — 
Ah, then the secret writing 

Of the spirit comes to light ! 
Through the mother's light caressing 

Of the baby on her knee, 
We see the mystic writing 

That she does not know we see — 
By the love-light as it flashes 

In her tender-lidded eyes, 
We know if that her vision rest 

On earth, or in the skies ; 
And by the song she chooses, 

By the very tune she sings, 
We know if that her heart be set 
On seen, or unseen things. 

Oh, when the hearth is kindled — 

When the house is hushed — 'tis then 
We see the hidden springs that move 

The open deeds of men. 
As the father turns the lesson 

For the boy or girl to learn, 
We perceive the inner letters 

That he knows not we discern. 
For either by the deed he does, 

Or that he leaves undone, 
We find and trace the channels 

Where his thoughts and feelings run. 
And often as the unconscious act, 

Or smile, or word we scan, 
Our hearts revoke the judgments 

We have passed upon the man. 



ft .tS . 



poems o/- ri/orc//T A. YD FEEUNG. 



.85 



Sometimes we find that he who says 

The least about his faith, 
Has steadfastness and sanctity 

To sutfcr unto death : 
Ami find that he who prays aloud 

With ostentatious mien. 
Prays only to he heard of men. 

And only to be seen. 
For when the hearth is kindled, 

And the house is hushed at night - 
Ah, then the secret writing 

Of the spirit comes to light. 



DREAMS. 

Often I sit and spend my hour. 

Linking my dreams from heart to 
brain. 

And as the child joins rlower to rlower, 
Then breaks and joins them on again, 

Casting the bright ones in disgrace. 
And weaving pale ones in their stead, 

Changing the honors and the place 
Of white and scarlet, blue and red ; 

And finding after all his pains 
Of sorting and selecting dyes, 

Xo single chain of all the chains 
The fond caprice that satisfies : 

So I from all things bright and brave. 
Select what brightest, bravest seems, 

And, with the utmost skill I have. 
Contrive the fashion of my dreams. 

Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound, 
And then I draw my pattern bold, 

And have my shuttle only wound 

With silken threads or threads of 
gold. 

Sometimes my heart reproaches me. 
And mesh from cunning mesh I pull, 

And weave in sad humility 

With flaxen threads or threads of 
wool. 

For here the hue too brightly gleams, 
And there the grain too dark is cast, 

And so no dream of all my dreams 
Is ever finished, first, or last. 

And looking back upon my past 

Thronged with so many a wasted 
hour, 



I think that I should fear to cast 
My fortunes if 1 had the power. 

And think that he is mainly wise. 
Who takes what conies of good or ill. 

Trusting that wisdom underlies 
And worketh in the end — His will. 



MY TOET. 

Ah, could I my poet only draw- 
In lines of a living light. 

You would say that Shakespeare never 
saw 
In his dreams a fairer sight. 

Along the bright crisp grass where by 

A beautiful water lay, 
We walked — my fancies and I — 

One morn in the early May. 

And there, betwixt the water sweet 
And the gay and grassy land, 

I found the print of two little feet 
Upon the silvery sand. 

These following, and following on, 
Allured by the place and time, 

I, all of a sudden, came upon 
This poet of my rhyme. 

Betwixt my hands I longed to take 
His two cheeks brown with tan, 

To kiss him for my true love's sake, 
And call him a little man. 

A rustic of the rustics he, 

By every look and sign, 
And I knew, when he turned his face 
to me, 

'T was his spirit made him fine. 

His ignorance he had sweetly turned 

Into uses passing words : 
He had cut a pipe of corn, and learned 

Thereon to talk to the birds. 

And now it was the bluebird's trill, 
Now the blackbird on the thorn, 

Now a speckle-breast, or tawny-bill 
That answered his pipe of corn, 

And now, though he turned him north 
and south. 

And called upon bird by bird, 
There was never a little golden mouth 

Would answer him back a word. 



1 86 



THE POEMS OE ALICE CARY. 



For all, from the red-bird bold and gay. 

To the linnet dull and plain, 
Had fallen on beds of the leafy spray. 

To listen in envious pain. 

" Ah. do as you like, my golden quill ; " 
So he said, for his wise share : 

" And the same to you. my tawny-bill, 
There are pleasures everywhere/' 

Then his heart fell in him dancing so. 
It spun to his cheek the red. 

As he spied himself in the wave below 
A-standing on his head. 

Ah, could I but this picture draw. 
Thus glad by his nature's right. 

You would say that Shakespeare never 
saw- 
In his dreams a fairer sight. 



WRITTEN OX THE FOURTH OF 
JULY, 1864. 

Once more, despite the noise of wars, 
And the smoke gathering fold on 
fold, 

Our daisies set their stainless stars 
Against the«unshine's cloth of gold. 

Lord, make us feel, if so thou will. 

The blessings crowning us to-day, 
And the yet greater blessing still. 

Of blessings thou hast taken away. 

Unworthy of the favors lent. 

We fell into apostasy : 
And lo ! our country's chastisement 

Has brought her to herself, and thee ! 

Nearer by all this grief than when 
She dared her weak ones to oppress, 

And played away her States to men 
Who scorned her for her foolishness. 

Oh, bless for us this holiday, 

Men keep like children loose from 
school, 
And put it in their hearts, we, pray. 

To choose them rulers fit to rule. 

Good men, who shall their country's 
pride 

And honor to their own prefer : 
Her sinews to their hearts so tied 

That they can only live through her. 



Men sturdy — of discerning eyes, 
And souls to apprehend the right : 

Not with their little light so wise 
They set themselves against thy light. 

Men of small reverence for names, 
Courageous, and of fortitude 

To put aside the narrow aims 
Of factor, for the public good. 

Men loving justice for the race. 

Not for the great ones, and the few. 
Less studious of outward grace 

Than careful to be clean all through. 

Men holding state, not self, the first, 
Ready when all the deep is tossed 

With storms, and worst is come to 
worst. 
To save the Ship at any cost. 

Men upright, and of steady knees, 
That only to the truth will bow : 

Lord, help us choose such men as these, 
For only such can save us now. 



ABRAHAM L^COLN. 

FOULLY ASSASSINATED, APRIL, 1865. — IN- 
SCRIBED TO PUNCH. 

No glittering chaplet brought from 
other lands ! 
As in his life, this man, in death, is 
ours : 
His own loved prairies o'er his "gaunt 
gnarled hands " 
Have fitly drawn their sheet of sum- 
mer flowers ! 

W T hat need hath he now of a tardy 
crown, 
His name from mocking jest and 
sneer to save ? 
When every ploughman turns his fur- 
row down 
As soft as though it fell upon his 
grave. 

He was a man whose like the world 
again 
Shall never see, to vex with blame or 
praise ; 
The landmarks that attest his bright, 
brief reign 
Are battles, not the pomps of gala- 
days ! 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AX/> FEELING. 



I8 7 



The grandest leader of the grandest 
war 

That ever time in history gave a 
place ; 

What were the tinsel Mattery of a star 
To such a breast ! or what a ribbon's 
ice ! 

'Tis to th' man, and th' man's honest 
worth, 

The nation's loyalty in tears up- 

springs : 
Through him the soil of labor shines 

henceforth 
High o'er the silken broideries of 

kin_ 

The mechanism of external forms — 
The shrifts that courtiers put their 
bodies through, 
Were alien ways to him — his brawny 
arms 
Had other work than posturing to do ! 

Born of the people, well he knew to 
grasp 
The wants and wishes of the weak 
and small : 
Therefore we hold him with no shadowy 
clasp — 
Therefore his name is household to 
us all. 

Therefore we love him with a love 
apart 
From any fawning love of pedigree — 
His was the royal soul and mind and 
heart — 
Not the poor outward shows of roy- 
alty. 

Forgive us then, O friends, if we are 
slow 
To meet your recognition of his 
worth — 
We 're jealous of the very tears that 
flow 
From eyes that never loved a humble 
hearth. 



SAVED. 

Xo tears for him ! his light was not 
your light ; 
From earth to heaven his spirit went 
and came, 



ing, where ye but saw the blank, 
black night. 
The golden breaking of the day of 
fame. 

Faded by the diviner life, and worn, 
Dust has returned to dust, and what 
ye see 
Is but the ruined house wherein were 
borne 
The birth-pangs of his immortality. 

Hither and thither drifting drearily, 

The glory of serener worlds he won. 
As some strange shifting column of the 
sea 
Catches the steadfast splendor of the 
sun. 

What was your shallow love ? or what 
the gleam 
Of smiles that chance and accident 
could chill, 
To him whose soul could make its mate 
a dream, 
And wander through the universe at 
will ? 

When your weak hearts to stormy pas- 
sion woke, 
His from its loftier bent was only 
stirred, 
As is the broad green bosom of the 
oak 
By the light flutter of the summer 
bird. 

His joys, in realms forbidden to you, he 
sought, 
And bodiless servitors, at his com- 
mands, 
Hovered about the watchfires of his 
thought 
On the dim borders of poetic lands. 

The times he lived in, like a hard, dark 
wall, 
He grandly painted with his woes 
and wrongs — 
Come nearer, friends, and see how 
brightly all 
Is joined with silvery mortises of 
songs. 

Weep for yourselves bereft, but not for 
him ; 
Wrong reaches to the compensating 
right, 



1 88 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And clouds that make the day of genius 
dim, 
Shine at the sunset with eternal light 



SPENT AND MISSPENT. 

Stay yet a little longer in the sky, 

O golden color of the evening sun ! 
Let not the sweet day in its sweetness 
die, 
While my day's work is only just 
begun. 

Counting the happy chances strewn 
about 
Thick as the leaves, and saving which 
was best, 
The rosy lights of morning all went 
out, 
And it was burning noon, and time to 
rest. 

Then leaning low upon a piece of shade, 

Fringed round with violets and pan- 

sies sweet, 

My heart and I, I said, will be delayed, 

And plan our work while cools the 

sultry heat. 

Deep in the hills, and out of silence 

vast, 

A waterfall played up his silver tune ; 

My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams at 

last, 

And held me late into the afternoon. 

But when the idle pleasure ceased to 
please, 
And I awoke, and not a plan was 
planned, 
Just as a drowning man at what he 
sees 
Catches for life, I caught the thing 
at hand. 

And so life's little work-day hour has 
all 
Been spent and misspent doing what 
I could, 



And in regrets and efforts to recall 
The chance of having, being, what I 
would. 

And so sometimes I cannot choose but 
cry, 
Seeing my late-sown flowers are 
hardly set — 
O darkening color of the evening sky, 
Spare me the day a little longer yet ! 



LAST AND BEST. 

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows 
run 

Across whatever light I see ; 
When all the work that I have done. 

Or can do, seems but vanity ; 

I strive, nor vainly strive, to get 

Some little heart's ease from the day 

When all the weariness and fret 
Shall vanish from my life away ; 

For I, with grandeur clothed upon, 
Shall lie in state and take my rest, 

And all my household, strangers grown, 
Shall hold me for an honored guest. 

But ere that day when all is set 
In order, very still and grand, 

And while my feet are lingering yet 
Along this troubled border-land, 

What things will be the first to fade, 
And down to utter darkness sink ? 

The treasures that my hands have laid 
Where moth and rust corrupt, I think. 

And Love will be the last to wait 
And light my gloom with gracious 
gleams ; 

For Love lies nearer heaven's glad gate, 
Than all imagination dreams. 

Aye, when my soul its mask shall drop, 
The twain to be no more at one, 

Love, with its prayers, shall bear me up 
Beyond the lark's wings, and the sun. 




POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



IF AND II 

If I were a painter. I could paint 

The dwarfed and straggling wood, 
And the hill-side where the meeting- 
house 
With the wooden belfry stood, 
A dozen steps from the door, — alone. 
On four square pillars of rough gray 
stone. 

We school-boys used to write our names 

With our finger-tips each clay 
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams, — once 
it shone, 
I have heard the old folks say. 
(Praising the time past, as old folks 

will,) 
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill. 

I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns. 
And the lime-burners, wild and 
proud. 
Their red sleeves cdeamin^ in the 
smoke 
Like a rainbow in a cloud, — 
Their huts by the brook, and their 

mimicking crew r — 
Making believe to be lime-burners too ! 

I could paint the brawny wood-cutter. 

With the patches at his knees. — 
He 's been asleep these twenty years, 

Among his friends, the trees : 
The day that he died, the best oak o' 

the wood 
Came up by the roots, and he lies 
where it stood. 

I could paint the blacksmith's dingy 
shop, — 
Its sign, a pillar of smoke ; 



The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired 

colt, 
And the jade with her neck in a yoke ; 
The pony that made to himself a law. 
And would n't go under the saddle, nor 

draw ! 

The poor old mare at the door-post, 

With joints as stiff as its pegs, — 

Her one white eye, and her neck 

awry, — 

Trembling the flies from her legs, 

And the thriftless farmer that used to 

stand 
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand. 

I could paint his quaint old-fashioned 
house. 
With its windows, square and small. 
And the seams of clay running even- 
way 
Between the stones o' the wall: 
The roof, with furrows of mosses green, 
And new r bright shingles set between. 

The oven, bulging big behind, 
And the narrow porch before, 

And the weather-cock for ornament 
On the pole beside the door ; 

And th' row of milk-pans, shining 
bright 

As silver, in the summer light. 

And I could paint his girls and boys, 

Each and every one, 
Hepzibah sweet with her little bare 
feet. 
And Shubal, the stalwart son, 
And wife and mother, with homespun 

gown. 
And roses beginning to shade into 
brown. 



190 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



I could paint the garden, with its 
paths 
Cut smooth, and running straight, — 
The gray sage bed, the poppies red, 
And the lady-grass at the gate, — 
The black warped slab with its hive of 

bees, 
In the corner, under the apple-trees. 

I could paint the fields, in the middle 
hush 
Of winter, bleak and bare, 
Some snow like a lamb that is caught 
in a bush, 
Hanging here and there, — 
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop, 
And the old dead stub with the crow 
at the top. 

The cow, with a board across her eyes, 

And her udder dry as dust, 
Her hide so brown, her horn turned 
down, 

And her nose the color of rust, — 
The walnut-tree so stiff and high, 
With its black bark twisted all awry. 

The hill-side, and the small space set 
With broken palings round, — 

The long loose grass, and the little 
grave 
With the head-stone on the ground, 

And the willow, like the spirit of grace 

Bending tenderly over the place. 

The miller's face, half smile, half 
frown, 
Were a picture I could paint, 
And the mill, with gable steep and 
brown, 
And dripping wheel aslant, — 
The weather-beaten door, set wide, 
And the heaps of meal-bags either 
side. 

The timbers cracked to gaping seams, 

The swallows' clay-built nests, 
And the rows of doves that sit on the 
beams 
With plump and glossy breasts, — 
The bear by his post sitting upright to 

eat, 
With half of his clumsy legs in his 
feet. 

I could paint the mill-stream, cut in 
two 
By the heat o' the summer skies, 



And the sand-bar, with its long brown 

back, 
And round and bubbly eyes, 
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er 

the tide, 
Creaking and swinging from side to 

side. 

The miller's pretty little wife, 
In the cottage that she loves, — 

Her hand so white, and her step so 
light, 
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's, 

Her tiny waist, and belt of blue, 

And her hair that almost dazzles you. 

I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, 
flanked 
With broken and wind-warped sheds, 
And the rock where the black clouds 
used to sit, 
And trim their watery heads 
With little sprinkles of shining light, 
Night and morning, morning and night. 

The road, where slow and wearily, 

The dusty teamster came, — 
The sign on its post and the round- 
faced host, 
And the high arched door, aflame 
With trumpet-flowers, — the well- 
sweep, high, 
And the flowing water-trough, close 
by. 

If I were a painter, and if my hand 

Were cunning, as it is not, 
I could paint you a picture that would 
stand 
When all the rest were forgot ; 
But why should I tell you what it would 

be? 
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see. 



AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

Oh, good painter, tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never 
saw ? 

Aye ? Well, here is an order^for you. 

Woods and corn fields, a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over- 
bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious 
light 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



I 9 I 



Of a cloud, when the summer sun is 
down. 
Alway and alway, night and morn, 

Woods upon woods, with fields of 
corn 
Lying between them, not quite 
re, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
When the wind can hardly find breath- 
ing-room 
Under their tassels, —cattle near. 
Biting shorter the short green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and saJ 

fras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
. good painter, you can't paint 
sound ! ) — 
These, and the house where I was 
born. 
Low and little, and black and old. 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some 

day, 
Roses crowding the self-same way, 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 
With woods and corn fields and 
grazing herds, 
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
Looked down upon you must paint for 

me : 
Oh. if I only could make you see 
The clear blue eyes, the tender 
smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the 

grace, 
The woman's soul, and the 
face 
That are beaming on me 
while, 
I need not speak these 
words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would 
say, — 
She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown 
away. 

Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir : one like me, — 
The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 



:entle 



angel's 



all the 
foolish 



God knoweth if he be living 
now. — 
He sailed in the good ship Com- 
modore, 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came 
back. 
Ah, it is twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 
With my great-hearted brother on 

her deck : 
I watched him till he shrank to a 
speck. 
And his face was toward me all the 

way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 
The time we stood at our mother's 
knee : 
That beauteous head, if it did go down, 
Carried sunshine into the sea ! 

Out in the fields one summer night 
We were together, half afraid 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of 
the shade 
Of the high hills, stretching so 
still and far, — 
Loitering till after the low little light 
Of the candle shone through the open 
door. 
And over the hay-stack's pointed top, 
All of a tremble and ready to drop, 

The first half-hour, the great 
yellow star, 
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 
Propped and held in its place in the 
skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, 
Which close in the edge of our flax- 
field grew, — 
Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined 
with wool, 
From which it tenderly shook the 
clew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after 
day. 
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of 
us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled 

eggs, — 
The other, a bird, held fast by the 

legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she would n't 

eat, 



192 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



But cried and cried, till we held her 

bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
Do you think, sir, if you try, 
You can paint the look of a lie ? 
If you can, pray have the grace 
To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me : 

I think 't was solely mine, in- 
deed : 
But that 's no matter, — paint it so ; 
The eyes of our mother — (take 
good heed) — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by 

the legs, 
But straight through our faces down to 

our lies, 
And, oh, with such injured, reproach- 
ful surprise ! 
I felt my heart bleed where that 

glance went, as though 
A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know 
That you on the canvas are to re- 
peat 
Things that are fairest, things most 

sweet, — 
Woods and corn fields and mulberry- 
tree, — 
The mother, — the lads, with their 
bird, at her knee : 
But, oh, that look of reproachful 
woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I '11 

shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave 
that out. 



THE SUMMER STORM. 

At noon-time I stood in the door-way 
to see 

The spots, burnt like blisters, as white 
as could be, 

Along the near meadow, shoved in like 
a wedge 

Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble- 
land's edge. 

The leaves of the elm-tree were dusty 

and brown, 
The birds sat with shut eyes and wings 

hanging down, 



The corn reached .its blades out, as if 

in the pain 
Of crisping and scorching it felt for the 

rain. 

Their meek faces turning away from 

the sun, 
The cows waded up to their flanks in 

the run, 
The sheep, so herd-loving, divided 

their flocks, 
And singly lay down by the sides of 

the rocks. 

At sunset there rose and stood black 

in the east 
A cloud with the forehead and horns of 

a beast, 
That quick to the zenith went higher 

and higher, 
With feet that "were thunder and eyes 

that w r ere fire. 

Then came a hot sough, like a gust of 

his breath, 
And the leaves took the tremble and 

whiteness of death, — 
The dog, to his master, from kennel 

and kin, 
Came whining and shaking, with back 

crouching in. 

At twilight the darkness was fearful to 

see : 
" Make room," cried the children, " O 

mother, for me ! " 
As climbing her chair and her lap, with 

alarm, 
And whisper, — " Was ever there seen 

such a storm ! " 

At morning, the run where the cows 

cooled their flanks 
Had washed up a hedge of white roots 

from its banks ; 
The turnpike was left a blue streak, 

and each side 
The gutters like rivers ran muddy and 

wide. 

The barefooted lad started merry to 

school, 
And the way was the nearest that led 

through the pool ; 
The red-bird wore never so shining a 

coat, 
Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her 

throat. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



193 



The teamster sat straight in his place, 

for the nonce. 
And sang to his sweetheart and team, 

both at once : 
And neighbors shook hands o'er the 

fences that day, 
And talked of their homesteads instead 

of their hay. 



THE SPECIAL DARLING. 

Along the grassy lane one day. 

Outside the dull old-fashioned town, 
A dozen children were at play : 

From noontide till the even-fall. 
Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads 

brown 
Were busily bobbing up and down 

Behind the blackberry wall. 

And near these merry-makers wild 
A piteous little creature was, 

With face unlike the face of a child, — 
Eves fixed, and seeming frozen still, 

And legs all doubled up in th' grass, 
Disjointed from his will. 

No dream deceived his dreary hours, 
Nor made him merry nor made him 
grave : 

He did not hear the children call, 

Tumbling under the blackberry-wall, 
With shoulders white with flowers ; 

But sat with great wide eyes one way, 

And bodylimberly a-sway. 
Like a water-plant in a wave. 

He did not hear the little stir 

The ants made, working in their hills, 
Nor see the pale, gray daffodils 

Lifting about him their dull points, 
Nor yet the curious grasshopper 

Transport his green and angular joints 
From bush to bush. Poor simple 
boy, — 

His senses cheated of their birth, 

He might as well have grown in th' 
earth, 
For all he knew of joy. 

Near where the children took their 
fill 
Of play, outside the dull old town. 
And neighbored by a wide-flanked hill, 
Where mists like phantoms up and 
down 

11 



Moved all the time, a homestead was, 

With window toward the plot of grass 
Where sat this child, and oft and 
again 
Tender eyes peered through the 
pane, 
Whose glances still were dim, 

Till leaping under the blackberry- 
wall, 
Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all, 
They rested at last on him. 

Ah, who shall s*ay but that such love 
Is the type of His who made us all, 

And that from the Kingdom up above 
The eyes that note the sparrow's fall, 
O'er the incapable, weak and small, 

Watch with tenderest care : 

Such is my hope and prayer. 



A DREAM OF HOME. 

Sunset ! a hush is on the air, 

Their gray old heads the mountains 

bare, 
As if the winds were saying prayer. 

The woodland, with its broad, green 

wing, 
Shuts close the insect whispering, 
And lo ! the sea gets up to sing. 

The day's last splendor fades and dies, 
And shadows one by one arise, 
To light the candles of the skies. 

O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew, 

woods, with starlight shining 

through ! 
My heart is back to-night with you ! 

1 know each beech and maple tree, 
Each climbing brier and shrub I see, — 
Like friends they stand to welcome me. 

Musing, I go along the streams, 
Sweetly believing in my dreams ; 
For Fancy like a prophet seems. 

Footsteps beside me tread the sod 
As in the twilights gone they trod ; 
And I unlearn my doubts, thank God ! 

Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears, 
And that bad carelessness that sears, 
And makes me older than my years. 



194 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



I hear a dear, familiar tone, 

A loving hand is in my own, 

And earth seems made for me alone. 



If I my fortunes could have planned, 
I would not have let go that hand ; 
But they must fall who learn to stand. 



And how to blend life's varied hues, 
What ill to find, what good to lose, 
My Father knoweth best to choose. 



EVENING PASTIMES. 

Sitting by my fire alone, 
When the winds are rough and cold, 
And I feel myself grow old 

Thinking of the summers flown, 

I have many a harmless art 
To beguile the tedious time : 
Sometimes reading some old rhyme 

I already know by heart ; 

Sometimes singing over words 
Which in youth's dear day gone by 
Sounded sweet, so sweet that I 

Had no praises for the birds. 

Then, from off its secret shelf 
I from dust and moth remove 
The old garment of my love, 

In the which I wrap myself. 

And a little while am vain ; 
But its rose hue will not bear 
The sad light of faded hair ; 

So I fold it up again, 

More in patience than regret 
Not a leaf the forest through 
But is sung and whispered to. 

I shall wear that garment yet. 



FADED LEAVES. 

The hills are bright with maples yet 

But down the level land 
The beech leaves rustle in the wind 

As dry and brown as sand. 

The clouds in bars of rusty red 

Along the hill-tops glow, 
And in the still, sharp air, the frost 

Is like a dream of snow. 



The berries of the brier-rose 
Have lost their rounded pride : 

The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums 
Are drooping heavy-eyed. 

The cricket grows more friendly now, 
The dormouse sly and wise, 

Hiding away in the disgrace 
Of nature, from men's eyes. 

The pigeons in black wavering lines 
Are swinging toward the sun ; 

And ail the wide and withered fields 
Proclaim the summer done. 

His store of nuts and acorns now 
The squirrel hastes to gain, 

And sets his house in order for 
The winter's dreary reign. 

'T is time to light the evening fire, 
To read good books, to sing 

The low and lovely songs that breathe 
Of the eternal spring. 



THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY. 

Some comfort when all else is night, 

About his fortune plays, 
Who sets his dark to-days in the light 

Of the sunnier yesterdays. 

In memory of joy that 's been 

Something of joy is, still ; 
Where no dew is, we may dabble in 

A dream of the dew at will. 

All with the dusty city's throng 
Walled round, I mused to-day 

Of flowery sheets lying white along 
The pleasant grass of the way. 

Under the hedge by the brawling brook 
I heard the woodpecker's tap, 

And the drunken trills of the blackbirds 
shook 
The sassafras leaves in my lap. 



shining 



I thought of the rainy morning air 
Dropping down through the pine, 

Of furrows fresh from the 
share, 
And smelling sweeter than wine. 

Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew 
With silver beads impearled, 






rOE.VS OF NATURE AND HO MR. 



195 



In the well that we used to think rein 
through 
To the other side of the world. 

I thought of the old ban) set about 
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay; 

Of the swallows flying in and out 
Through the gables, Steep and gray : 

Thought of the golden hum of the bees, 
Of the cocks with their heads so 
high, 
Making it morn in the tops of the 
trees 
Before it was morn in the sky. 

And of the home, of the dear old home. 

With its brown and rose-bound wall, 
Where we fancied death could never 
come — 

I thought of it more than of all. 

Each childish play-ground memory 
claims. 

Telling me here, and thus, 
We called to the echoes by their names, 

Till we made them answer us. 

Thank God, when other power decays, 

And other pleasures die, 
We still may set our dark to-days 

In the light of days gone by. 



A SEA SONG. 

Come, make for me a little song — 
'T was so a spirit said to me — 

And make it just four verses long, 
And made it sweet as it can be, 
And make it all about the sea. 

Sing me about the wild waste shore, 

Where, long and long ago, with me 
You watched the silver sails that bore 
The great, strong ships across the 

sea — 
The blue, the bright, the boundless 
sea. 

Sing me about the plans we planned : 
How one of those good ships should 
be 
My way to find some flowery land 
Away beyond the misty sea, 
Where, alway, you should live with 
me. 



Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught 
Up into heaven, because that we 

Knew not the flowery land we sought 
Lay all beyond that other sea — 
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea. 



SERMONS IX STONES. 

Flower of the deep red zone, 
Rain the fine light about thee, near and 

far, 
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening 
star 
Holdeth all heaven, alone, 
And with thy wondrous glory make 

men see 
His greater glory who did fashion thee ! 

Sing, little goldfinch, sing ! 
Make the rough billows lift their curly 

ears 
And listen, fill the violet's eyes with 

tears, 
Make the green leaves to swing 
As in a dance, when thou dost hie 

along, 
Showing the sweetness whence thou 

get'st thy song. 

O daisies of the hills, 

When winds do pipe to charm ye, be 
not slow. 

Crowd up, crowd up, and make your 
shoulders show 
White o'er the daffodils ! 

Yea, shadow forth through your excel- 
ling grace 

With whom ye have held counsel face 
to face. 

Fill full our desire, 
Gray grasses ; trick your lowly stems 

with green, 
And wear your splendors even as a 
queen 
Weareth her soft attire. 
Unfold the cunning mystery of de- 
sign 
That combs out all your skirts to rib- 
bons fine. 

And O my heart, my heart, 
Be careful to go strewing in and out 
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come 
about 

That when thou shalt depart, 



196 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



No low lamenting tongue be found to 

say, ^ 
The world is poorer since thou went'st 

away ! 

Thou shouldst not idly beat, 

While beauty draweth good men's 

thoughts to prayer 
Even as the bird's wing draweth out 

the air, 
But make so fair and sweet 
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall 

spread about, 
When death unlocks the door and lets 

thee out. 



MY PICTURE. 

Ah, how the eye on the picture stops 
Where the lights of memory shine ! 
My friend, to thee I will leave the 
sea, 
If only this be mine, 
For the thought of the breeze in the 
tops of the trees 
Stirs my blood like wine ! 

I will leave the sea and leave the 
ships, 
And the light-house, taper and tall, 
The bar so low, whence the fishers 
go, 
And the fishers' wives and all, 
If thou wilt agree to leave to me 
This picture for my wall. 

I leave thee all the palaces, 
With their turrets in the sky — 
The hunting-grounds, the hawks and 
hounds — 
They please nor ear nor eye ; 
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' 
the oaks 
Make my pulses fly. 



choiring 



The old cathedral, filling all 

The street with its shadow brown, 
The organ grand, and the 
band, 

And the priest with his shaven 
crown ; 
'T is the wail of the hymn in the wild- 
wood dim, 
That bends and bows me down. 

The shepherd piping to his flock 
In the merry month of the May, 



The lady fair with the golden hair, 

And the knight so gallant and 
gay — 
For the wood so drear that is pictured 
here, 
I give them all away. 

I give the cities and give the sea, 
The ships and the bar so low, 
And fishers and wives whose dreary 
lives 
Speak from the canvas so ; 
And for all of these I must have the 
trees — 
The trees on the hills of snow ! 

And shall we be agreed, my friend ? 
Shall it stand as I have said ? 
For the sake of the shade wherein I 
played, 
And for the sake of my dead, 
That lie so low on the hills of snow, 
Shall it be as I have said ? 



MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

Morn on the mountains ! streaks of 
roseate light 
Up the high east athwart the shadows 
run ; 
The last low star fades softly out of 
sight, 
And the gray mists go forth to meet 
the sun. 

And now from every sheltering shrub 
and vine, 
And thicket wild with many a tangled 
spray, 
And from the birch and elm and rough- 
browed pine, 
The birds begin to serenade the day. 

And now the cock his sleepy harem 
thrills 
With clarion calls, and down the 
flowery dells ; 
And from their mossy hollows in the 
hills ; 
The sheep have started all their tink- 
ling bells. 

Lo, the great sun ! and Nature every- 
where 

Is all alive, and sweet as she can be ; 
A thousand happy sounds are in the air, 

A thousand by the rivers and the sea. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



197 



The dipping oar, the boatman's cheer- 
ful horn, 
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise 
anil fall ; 
And pleasantly along the springing 
corn. 
The music of the ploughshare, best 
Of all, — 

The insect's little hum, the whir and 
beat 
Of myriad wings, the mower's song 
so blithe. 
The patter of the school-boy's naked 
feet. 
The joyous ringing of the whetted 
scythe, — 

The low of kine, the falling meadow 
bar. 
The teamster's whistle gay, the dron- 
ing round 
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful 
jar 
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the gen- 
eral sound. 

.And by the sea, and in each vale and 
glen 
Are happy sights, as well as sounds 
to hear. 
The world of things, and the great 
world of men. 
All, all is busy, busy far and near. 

The ant is hard at work, and every- 
where 
The bee is balanced on her wings so 
brown : 
And the black spider on her slender 
stair 
Is running down and up, and up and 
down. 

The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantas- 
tic curls, 
Above the low - roofed homestead 
sweeps away, 
And o'er the groups of merry boys and 
girls 
That pick the berries bright, or rake 
the hay. 

Morn on the mountains ! the enkindling 
skies, 
The flowery fields, the meadows, and 
the sea, 



All are so lair, the heart within me cries, 
How good, how wondrous good our 
God must be. 



THE THISTLE FLOWER. 

My homely flower that blooms along 

The dry and dusty ways, 
I have a mind to make a song, 

And make it in thy praise ; 
For thou art favored of my heart, 
Humble and outcast as thou art. 

Though never with the plants of grace 

In garden borders set, 
Full often have I seen thy face 

With tender tear-drops wet, 
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves 
All wringing with them, morns and 
eves. 

Albeit thou livest in a bush 

Of such unsightly form, 
Thou hast not any need to blush — 

Thou hast thine own sweet charm ; 
And for that charm I love thee so, 
And not for any outward show. 

The iron-weed, so straight and fine, 

Above thy head may rise, 
And all in glossy purple shine ; 

But to my partial eyes 
It cannot harm thee — thou hast still 
A place no finer flower can fill. 

The fennel, she is courted at 
The porch-side and the door — 

Thou hast no lovers, and for that 
I love thee all the more ; 

Only the wind and rain to be 

Thy friends, and keep thee company. 

So, being left to take thine ease 

Behind thy thorny wall, 
Thy little head with vanities 

Has not been turned at all, 
And all field beauties give me grace 
To praise thee to thy very face. 

So, thou shalt evermore belong 
To me from this sweet hour, 

And I will take thee for my song, 
And take thee for my flower, 

And by the great, and proud, and high 

Unenvied, we will live and die. 



198 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



MY DARLINGS. 

My Rose, so red and round. 
My Daisy, darling of the summer 

weather, 
You must go down now, and keep 
house together, 
Low underground ! 

O little silver line 
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise 

darkling, 
Slip out of sight, and with your comely 
sparkling 
Make their hearth shine. 

Leaves of the garden bowers, 
The frost is coming soon, — your prime 

is over ; 
So gently fall, and make a soft, warm 
cover 
To house my flowers. 

Lithe willow, too, forego 
The crown that makes you queen of 

woodland graces, 
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady 
tresses 
From your drooped brow. 

Oak, held by strength apart 
From all the trees, stop now your stems 

from growing, 
And send the sap, while yet 't is bravely 
flowing, 
Back to your heart. 

And ere the autumn sleet 
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snow- 
ing, 
Make compact with your peers for 
overstrowing 
My darlings sweet. 

So when their sleepy eyes 
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy 

kisses, 
They to the sweet renewal of old 
blisses 
Refreshed may rise. 

Lord, in that evil day 
When my own wicked thoughts like 

thieves waylay me, 
Or when pricked conscience rises up 
to slay me, 
Shield me, I pray. 



Aye, when the storm shall drive, 
Spread thy two blessed hands like 

leaves above me, 
And with thy great love, though none 
else should love me, 
Save me alive ! 

Heal with thy peace my strife ; 
And as the poet with his golden vers- 
ing 
Lights his low house, give me, thy 
praise rehearsing, 
To light my life. 

Shed down thy grace in showers, 
And if some roots of good, at thy ap- 
pearing, 
Be found in me, transplant them for the 
rearing 
Of heavenly flowers. 



THE FIELD SWEET-BRIER. 

I love the flowers that come about 
with spring, 
And whether they be scarlet, white, 
or blue, 

It mattereth to me not anything ; 
For when I see them full of sun and 
dew, 

My heart doth get so full with its de- 
light, 

I know not blue from red, nor red from 
white. 

Sometimes I choose the lily, without 

stain ; 
The roval rose sometimes the best I 

call ; 
Then the low daisy, dancing with the 

rain, 
Doth seem to me the finest flower of 

all; 
And yet if only one could bloom for 

me — 
I know right well what flower that one 

would be ! 

Yea, so I think my native 1 wilding 
brier, 
With just her thin four leaves, and 
stem so rough, 
Could, with her sweetness, give me my 
desire, 
Aye, all my life long give me sweets 
enough ; 



rOEMS OF XATl'RE AND HOME. 



I99 



For though she be not vaunted to excel, 
She in all modest grace aboundeth well. 

And I would have no whit the less con- 
tent. 
Because she hath not won the poet's 
voice, 

To pluck her little stars for ornament, 
And that no man were poorer for my 
choice. 

Since she perforce must shine above 
the rest 

In comely looks, because I love her 
best ! 

When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go 
Where all selected glories blush and 

bloom, 
I search and find the flower that used 

to grow 
Close by the door-stone of the dear 

old home — 
The flower whose knitted roots we did 

divide 
For sad transplanting, when the mother 

died. 

All of the early and the latter May, 
And through the windless heats of 
middle June, 

Our green-armed brier held for us day 
by day. 
The morning coolness till the after- 
noon ; 

And every bird that took his grateful 
share, 

Sang with a heavenlier tongue than 
otherwhere. 

And when from out the west the low 

sun shone, 
It used to make our pulses leap and 

thrill 
To see her lift her shadows from the 

stone, 
And push it in among us o'er the 

sill — 
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push 

softly in, 
As if she were our very kith and kin. 

So, seeing still at evening's golden 
close 
This shadow with our childish shad- 
ows blend, 
We came to love our simple four- 
leaved rose, 
As if she were a sister or a friend. 



And if my eyes all flowers but one 

must lose, 
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one 

to choose. 



THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE 
HILL. 

Memory, be sweet to me -r- 
Take, take all else at will, 

So thou but leave me safe and sound, 
Without a token my heart to wound, 
The little house on the hill ! 

Take all of best from east to west, 

So thou but leave me still 
The chamber, where in the starry 
light 

1 used to lie awake at night 
And list to the whip-poor-will. 

Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red, 
And the purple flags by the mill, 

The meadow gay, and the garden- 
ground, 

But leave, oh leave me safe and sound 
The little house on the hill ! 

The daisy-lane, and the dove's low 
plain 
And the cuckoo's tender bill, 
Take one and all, but leave the dreams 
That turned the rafters to golden 
beams, 
In the little house on the hill ! 

The gables brown, they have tumbled 
clown, 
And dry is the brook by the mill ; 
The sheets I used with care to keep 
Have wrapt my dead for the last long 
sleep, 
In the valley, low and still. 

But, Memory, be sweet to me, 
And build the walls, at will, 
Of the chamber where I used to mark, 
So softly rippling over the dark, 
The song of the whip-poor-will ! 

Ah, Memory, be sweet to me ! 

All other fountains chill ; 
But leave that song so weird and wild, 
Dear as its life to the heart of the 
child, 

In the little house on the hill ! 



200 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



THE OLD HOUSE. 

My little birds, with backs as brown 
As sand, and throats as white as 
frost, 
I 've searched the summer up and 
down, 
And think the other birds have lost 
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low, 
About the old house, long ago. 

My little flowers, that with your bloom 

So hid the grass you grew upon, 
A child's foot scarce had any room 
Between you, — are you dead and 
gone ? 
I 've searched through fields and gar- 
dens rare, 
Nor found your likeness anywhere. 

My little hearts, that beat so high 
With love to God, and trust in men, 

Oh, come to me, and say if I 

But dream, or was I dreaming then, 

What time we sat within the glow 

Of the old house hearth, long ago ? 

My little hearts, so fond, so true, 
I searched the world all far and 
wide, 
And never found the like of you : 

God grant we meet the other side 
The darkness 'twixt us now that 

stands, 
In that new house not made with 
hands ! 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

" I could not think so plain a bird 
Could sing so fine a song." 

One on another against the wall 

Pile up the books, — I am done with 

them all ! 
I shall be wise, if I ever am wise, 
Out of my own ears, and of my own 

eyes. 

One day of the woods and their balmv 
light,— 
One hour on the top of a breezy hill, 
Where in the sassafras all out of sight 
The blackbird is splitting his slen- 
der bill 
For the ease of his heart ! 



Do you think if he said 

I will sing like this bird with the mud- 
colored back 

And the two little spots of gold over 
his eyes, 

Or like to this shy little creature that 
flies 

So low to the ground, with the ame- 
thyst rings 

About her small throat, — all alive 
when she sings 

With a glitter of shivering green, — 
for the rest, 

Gray shading to gray, with the sheen 
of her breast 

Half rose and half fawn, — 

Or like this one so proud, 

That flutters so restless, and cries out 
so loud, 

With stiff horny beak and a topknotted 
head, 

And a lining of scarlet laid under his 
wings, — 

Do you think, if he said, " I 'm 
ashamed to be black ! " 

That he could have shaken the sassa- 
fras-tree 

As he does with the song he was born 
to ? not he ! 



CRADLE SONG. 

All by the sides of the wide wild river 

Surging sad through the sodden land, 
There be the black reeds washing to- 
gether — 

Washing together in rain and sand ; 
Going, blowing, flowing, together — 

Rough are the winds, and the tide 
runs high — 
Hush little babe in thy silken cradle — 

Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby ! 

Father is riding home, little baby, 
Riding home through the wind and 
rain ; 
Flinty hoofs on the flag stems beating 
Thrum like a flail on the golden 
grain. 
All in the wild, wet reeds of the low- 
lands, 
Dashed and plashed with the freezing 

foam, 
There be the blood-red wings of the 
starlings 
Shining to light and lead him home. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



20 1 



Spurring han't o'er the grass-gray 

ridges — 
Slacking rein in the low, wet land. 
Where be the black reeds washing to- 
ller — 
Washing together in rain and sand. 

mi of the yellow-throated creeper — 

Plumes of the woodcock, green and 

black — 

Boughs of salix, and combs of honey — 

The.se be the gilts he is bearing back. 

iter morning four sweet ground- 
do \ 
Sung so gay to their nest in the 
wall— ' 
Oh, by the moaning, and oh, by the 
droning. 
The wild, wild water is over them all ! 
Come, O morning, come with thy roses, 
Flame like a burning bush in the 
sky — 
Hush, little babe, in the silken cradle — 
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby ! 



GOING TO COURT. 

The farm-lad quarried from the mow 
The golden bundles, hastily. 

And. giving oxen, colt, and cow 

Their separate portions, he was free. 

Then, emptying all the sweet delight 
Of his young heart into his eyes, 

As if he might not go that night. 
He lingered, looking at the skies. 

The evening's silver plough had gone 
Through twilight's bank of yellow 
haze. 

And turned two little stars thereon — 
Still artfully he stayed to praise 

The hedge-row's bloom — the trickling 
run — 

The crooked lane, and valley low — 
Each pleasant walk, indeed, save one, 

And that the way he meant to go ! 

In truth, for Nature's simple shows 
He had no thoughts that night, to 
spare, 

In vain to please his eyes, the rose 
Climbed redly out upon the air. 

The bean-flower, in her white attire 
Displayed in vain her modest charms, 



And apple-blossoms, all on fire, 
fell uninvited in his arms. 

When Annie raked the summer hay 
Last year, a little thorn he drew 

Out of her white hand, such a way, 
It pierced his heart all through and 
through. 

Poor farmer-lad ! could he that night 
Have seen how fortune's leaves were 
writ. 

His eyes had emptied all their light 
Back to his heart, and broken it. 



ON THE SEA. 

I will call her when she comes to me 

My lily, and not my wife, 
So whitely and so tenderly 

She was set in my stormy life. 

In vain her gentle eyes to please 
The year had done her best, 

Setting her tides of crocuses 
All softly toward the west : 

The bright west, where our love was 
born ^ 

And grew to perfect bloom, 
And where the broad leaves of the 
corn 
Hang low about her tomb. 



I hid from men my cruel wound 
And sailed away on the sea, 

But like waves around some 
aground 
Her love enfoldeth me. 



hulk 



My clumsy hands are cracked and 
brown ; 

My chin is rough as a bur, 
But under the dry husk soft as down 

Lieth my love for her. 

One night when storms were in the 
sky — 

Sailing away on the sea, 
I dreamed that I was doomed to die, 

And that she came to me. 

They bound my eyes, but I had sight 
And saw her take that hour 

My head so bright in her apron white 
As if it had been a flower ! 



202 



THE POEMS 0E ALICE CARY. 



No child when I sit alone at night 
Comes climbing on my knee, 

But I dream of love and my heart is 
light 
As I sail away on the sea. 



A FRAGMENT. 

It was a sandy level wherein stood 
The old and lonesome house ; far as 
the eye 
Could measure, on the green back of 
the wood, 
The smoke lay always, low and lazily. 

Down the high gable windows, all one 
way, 
Hung the long, drowsy curtains, and 
across 
The sunken shingles, where the rain 
would stay, 
The roof was ridged, a hand's 
breadth deep, with moss. 

The place was all so still you would 
have said 
The picture of the Summer, drawn, 
should be 
With golden ears, laid back against 
her head, 
And listening to the far, low-lying sea. 

But from the rock, rough-grained and 
icy-crowned, 
Some little flower from out some 
cleft will rise ; 
And in this quiet land my love I found, 
With all their soft light, sleepy, in 
her eyes. 

No bush to lure a bird to sing to her — 
In depths of calm the gnats' faint 
hum was drowned, 

And the wind's voice was like a little stir 
Of the uneasy silence, not like sound. 

No tender trembles of the dew at close 

Of day, — at morn, no insect choir ; 
No sweet bees at sweet work about the 
rose, 
Like little housewife fairies round 
their fire. 

And yet the place, suffused with her, 
seemed fair — 
Ah, I would be immortal, could I 
write 



How from her forehead fell the shining 
hair. 



As morning falls from heaven 
bright ! so bright. 



so 



SHADOWS. 

When I see the long wild briers 
Waving in the winds like 'fires, 

See the-green skirts of the maples 
Barred with scarlet and with gold, 
See the sunflower, heavy-hearted, 
Shadows then from days departed 

Come and with their tender trembles 
Wrap my bosom, fold on fold. 

I can hear sweet invitations 
Through the sobbing, sad vibrations 

Of the winds that follow, follow, 
As from self I seek to fly — 
Come up hither ! come up hither ! 
Leave the rough and rainy weather ! 

Come up where the royal roses 
Never fade and never die ! 

'T was when May was blushing, bloom- 
ing, 

Brown bee, bluebirds, singing, hum- 
ming, 
That we built and walled our cham- 
ber 

With the emerald of leaves ; 

Made our bed of yellow mosses, 

Soft as pile of silken flosses, 

Dreamed our dreams in dewy bright- 
ness 

Radiant like the morns and eves. 

And it was when woods were gleaming, 
And when clouds were wildly stream- 
ing 

Gray and umber, white and ember, 
Streaming in the north wind's breath, 
That my little rose-mouthed blossom 
Fell and faded on my bosom, 

Cankered by the coming coldness, 
Blighted by the frosts of death. 

Therefore, when I see the shadows, 
Drifting in across the meadows, 

See the troops of summer wild birds 
Flying from us, cloud on cloud, 
Memory with that May-time lingers, 
And I seem to feel the fingers 

Of my lost and lovely darling 
Wrap my heart up in her shroud. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



203 



APRIL. 

The wild and windy March once more 
Has shut his gates of sleet, 

And given us hack the April-time, 
So rickle and so sweet. 

Now blighting with our fears, our 
hopes — 
w kindling hopes with fears — 
Now softly weeping through her 
smiles — 
Now smiling through her tears. 

Ah. month that comes with rainbows 
crowned. 

And golden shadows dressed — 
Constant to her inconstancy. 

And faithful to unrest. 

The swallows 'round the homestead 
eaves — 

The bluebirds in the bowers 
Twitter their sweet songs for thy sake, 

Gay mother of the flowers. 

The brooks that moaned but yester- 
day 
Through bunches of dead grass, 
Climb up their banks with dimpled 
hands, 
And watch to see thee pass. 

The willow, for thy grace's sake, 
Has dressed with tender spray. 

And all the rivers send their mists 
To meet thee on the way. 

The morning sets her rosy clouds 

Like hedges in the sky. 
And o'er and o'er their dear old tunes 

The winds of evening try. 

Before another week has gone, 
Each bush, and shrub, and tree, 

Will be as full of buds and leaves 
As ever it can be. 

I welcome thee with all my heart, 

Glad herald of the spring. 
And yet I cannot choose but think 

Of all thou dost not bring. 

The violet opes her eyes beneath 
The dew-fall and the rain — 

But oh, the tender, drooping lids 
That open not again ! 



Thou set'sts the red familiar rose 
Beside the household door. 

But oh, the friends, the sweet, sweet 
friends 
Thou bringest back no more ! 

But shall I mourn that thou no more 
A short-lived joy can bring, 

Since death has lifted up the gates 
Of their eternal spring ? 



POPPIES. 

O ladies, softly fair, 

Who curl and comb your hair, 

And deck your dainty bodies, eve and 
morn, 
With pearls, and flowery spray. 
And knots of ribbons gay, 

As if ye were for idlesse only born : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 

But foolish poppies in among the corn ! 

Whose lives but parts repeat — 
Whose little dancing feet 
Swim lightly as the silverly mists of 
morn : 
Whose pretty palms unclose 
Like some fresh dewy rose, 
For dainty dalliance, not for distaffs 
born ; 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 
But flaunting poppies in among the 
corn ! 

O women, sad of face, 
Whose crowns of girlish grace 
Sin has plucked off, and left ye all for- 
lorn — 
Whose pleasures do not please — 
Whose hearts have no hearts'- 
ease — 
Whose seeming honor is of honor 
shorn : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, one and all, 
But painted poppies in among the corn ! 

Women, to name whose name 
All good men blush for shame, 
And bad men even, with the speech of 
scorn ; 
Who have nor sacred sight 
For Vesta's lamps so white, 



204 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Nor hearing for old Triton's wreathed 
horn: 
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, one and all, 

But poison poppies in among the corn ! 

Women, who will not cease 
From toil, nor be at peace 
Either at purple eve or yellowing morn, 
But drive with pitiless hand, 
Your ploughshares through the 
land 
Quick with the lives of daisies yet un- 
born : 
Hearken to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 
But troublous poppies in among the 
corn ! 

Blighting with fretful looks 
The tender-tasseled stocks — 
Sweeping your wide-floored barns with 
sighs forlorn 
About the unfilled grains 
And starving hunger-pains 
That on the morrow, haply, shall be 
borne : 
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 
What are ye, after all, 
But forward poppies in among the 
corn ! 

O virgins, whose pure eyes 

Hold commerce with the skies — 
Whose lives lament that ever ye were 
born ; 

The cross whose joy to wear 
Never the rose, but only just the thorn : 

Hearken to Wisdom's call — 

What are ye, after all, 
Better than poppies in among the corn ! 

What better ? who abuse 

The gifts wise women use, 
With locks sheared off, and bosoms 
scourged and torn ; 

Lapping your veils so white 

Betwixt ye and the light, 
Composed in heaven's sweet cisterns, 
morn by morn : 

Oh, hark to Wisdom's call — 

What are ye, after all 
Better than poppies in among the corn ! 

O women, rare and fine, 
Whose mouths are red with wine 
Of kisses of your children, night and 
morn, 



Whose ways are virtue's ways — 
Whose good works are your 
praise — 
Whose hearts hold nothing God has 
made in scorn : 
Though Fame may never call 
Your names, ye are, for all, 
The Ruths that stand breast-high amid 
the corn ! 

Your steadfast love and sure 
Makes all beside it poor ; 
Your cares like royal ornaments are 
worn ; 
Wise women ! what so sweet, 
So queenly, so complete 
To name ye by, since ever one was 
born ? 
Since she, whom poets call, 
The sweetest of you all, 
First gleaned with Boaz in among the 
corn. 



A SEA SONG. 

Nor far nor near grew shrub nor 

tree, 
The bare hills stood up bleak behind, 
And in between the marsh weeds gray 
Some tawny-colored sand-drift lay, 
Opening a pathway to the sea, 
The which I took to please my mind. 

In full sight of the open seas 
A patch of flowers I chance to find, 
As if the May, being thereabout, 
Had from her apron spilled them out ; 
And there I lay and took my ease, 
And made a song to please my mind. 

Sweet bed ! if you should live full 

long, 
A sweeter you will never find — 
Some flowers were red, and some were 

white ; 
And in their low and tender light 
I meditated on my song, 
Fitting the words to please my mind. 

Some sea-waves on the sands up- 
thrown, 
And left there by the wanton wind, 
With lips all curled in homesick pain 
For the old mother's arms again, 
Moved me, and to their piteous moan 
I set the tune to please my mind. 



POEMS Oh NATURE AND HOME. 



205 



But now I would in very truth 
The flowers I had not chanced to find, 
Nor lain their speckled leaves along, 
Nor set to that sad tune my song ; 
For that which pleased my careless 

youth 
It taileth now to please my mind. 

And this thing I do know for true. 
A truer you will never find, 
NO false' step e'er so lightly rung 
But that some echo giving tongue 

Did like a hound all steps pursue. 
Until the world was left behind. 



WINTER AND SUMMER. 

The winter goes and the summer 
comes, 

And the cloud descends in warm, 
wet showers : 
The grass throws green where the frost 



has been, 
I waste am 
with flowers. 



And waste and wavside are fringed 



The winter goes and the summer 
comes, 
And the merry bluebirds twitter and 
trill. 
And the swallow swings on his steel- 
blue wings, 
This way and that way, at wildest 
will. 



And the snow lies white where the 
iss was bright. 
And the wild wind bitterly blows and 
blows. 

The winter comes and the winter 
stays. 
Aye, cold and long and long and 
cold, 
And the pulses beat to the weary feet, 
And the head feels sick and the 
heart grows cold. 

The winter comes and the winter 
stays, 
And all the glory behind us lies, 
The cheery light drops into the night, 
And the snow drifts over our sight- 
less eyes. 



AUTUMN. 

Shorter and shorter now the twilight 
clips 
The days, as through the sunset 
gates they crowd, 
And Summer from her golden collar 
slips 
And strays through stubble-fields, 
and moans aloud, 



Save when by fits the warmer air de- 
ceives, 
And, stealing hopeful to some shel- 
tered bower, 
The winter goes and the summer i She lies on pillows of the yellow 



comes. 
And the swallow he swingeth no 

more aloft. 
And the bluebird's breast swells out of 

her nest. 
And the horniest bill of them all 

grows soft. 

The summer goes and the winter 
comes, 
And the daisy dies and the daffodil 
dies. 
And the softest bill grows horny and 
still, 
And the days set dimly and dimly 
rise. 

The summer goes and the winter 
comes 
And the red fire fades from the 
heart o' th' rose, 



leaves, 

And tries the old tunes over for an 
hour. 

The wind, whose tender whisper in the 
May 
Set all the young blooms listening 
through th' grove, 
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to- 
day 
And makes his cold and unsuccess- 
ful love. 

The rose has taken off her tire of 
red — 
The mullein-stalk its yellow stars 
have lost, 
And the proud meadow-pink hangs 
down her head 
Against earth's chilly bosom, witched 
with frost. 



206 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



The robin, that was busy all the June, 
Before the sun had kissed the top- 
most bough, 
Catching our hearts up in his golden 
tune, 
Has given place to the brown cricket 
now. 

The very cock crows lonesomely at 
morn — 
Each flag and fern the shrinking 
stream divides — 
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn 
Creep to their strawy sheds with 
nettled sides. 

Shut up the door : who loves me must 
not look 
Upon the withered world, but haste 
to bring 
His lighted candle, and his story-book, 
And live with me the poetry of 
spring. 



DAMARIS. 

You know th' forks of th' road, and 
th' brown mill ? 
And how th' mill-stream, where th' 

three elms grow, 
Flattens its curly head and slips be- 
low 
That shelf of rocks which juts from 
out th' hill ? 

You know th' field of sandstone, red 
and gray, 
Sloped to th' south ? and where th' 

sign-post stands, 
Silently lifting up its two black 
hands 
To point th' uneasy traveler on his 
way ? 

You must remember the long rippling 
ridge 
Of rye, that cut the level land in two, 
And changed from blue to green, 
from green to blue, 
Summer after summer ? And th' one- 
arched bridge, 

Under the which, with joy surpassing 
words, 
We stole to see beneath the speckled 
breast 



Of th' wild mother, all the clay- 
built nest 
Set round with shining heads of little 
birds. 

Well, midway 'twixt th' rye-ridge and 
th' mill, 
In the old house with windows to the 

morn, 
The village beauty, Damaris, was 
born — 
There lives, in " maiden meditation," 
still. 

Stop you and mark, if you that way 
should pass, 
The old, familiar quince and apple- 
trees, 
Chafing against the wall with every 
breeze, 
And at the door the flag-stones, set in 
grass. 

There is the sunflower, with her starry 
face 
Leaned to her love ; and there, with 

pride elate, 
The prince's-feather — at th' garden- 
gate 
The green-haired plants, all gracious 
in their place. 

You '11 think you have not been an 
hour away — 
Seeing the stones, th' flowers, the 

knotty trees, 
And 'twixt the palings, strings of 
yellow bees, 
Shining like streaks of light — but, 
welladay ! 

If Damaris happen at the modest 
door, 
In gown of silver gray and cap of 

snow — 
Your May-day sweetheart, forty 
years ago — 
The brief delusion can delude no 
more. 



A LESSON. 

Woodland, green and gay with dew, 
Here, to-day, I pledge anew 
All the love I gave to you 

When my heart was young and glad, 



POEMS OF X ATI' RE AND HOME. 



207 



And in dress o\ homespun plait!. 
Bright as any flower you hail. 

Through your bushy ways I trod, 
Or, lay hushed upon your sod 
With my silence praising God. 

er sighing for the town — 
er giving Lack a frown 
To the sun that kissed me brown. 

When my hopes were of such stuff. 
That my days, though crude enough, 
Were with golden gladness rough — 

Timid creatures of the air — 
Little ground-mice, shy and fair — 
You were friendly with me there. 

Beeches gray, and solemn firs, 
Thickets full of bees and burs, 
You were then my school-masters, 

Teaching me as best you could, 

How the evil by the good — 

Thorns by flowers must be construed. 

Rivulets of silvery sound, 
Searching close, I always found 
Fretting over stony ground. 

And in hollows, cold and wet, 

Violets purpled into jet 

As if bad blood had been let ; 

While in every sunny place, 
Each one wore upon her face 
Looks of true and tender grace. 

Leaning from the hedge-row wall, 
Gave the rose her sweets to all, 
Like a royal prodigal. 

And the lily, priestly white, 
Made a little saintly light 
In her chapel out of sight. 

Heedless how the spider spun — 
Heedless of the brook that run 
Boldly 



winking at the sun. 



When the autumn clouds did pack 

Hue on hue. unto that black 

That 's bluish, like a serpent's back, 

Emptying all their cisterns out, 
While the winds in fear and doubt 
Whirled like dervises about, 



And the mushroom, brown and dry, 
On the meadows face did lie, 
Shrunken like an evil eye — 

Shrunken all its fleshy skin, 
Like a lid that wrinkles in 
Where an eyeball once had been. 

How my soul within me cried, 

As along the woodland side 

All the flowers fell sick and died. 

But when Spring returned, she said, 
" They were sleeping, and not dead — 
Thus must light and darkness wed." 

Since that lesson, even death 
Lies upon the glass of faith, 
Like the dimness of a breath. 



KATRINA ON THE PORCH. 

A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS. 

An old, old house by the side of the 
sea, 
And never a picture poet would 

paint : 
But I hold the woman above the 
saint, 
And the light of the hearth is more to 
me 
Than shimmer of air-built castle. 

It fits as it grew to the landscape 
there — 
One hardly feels as he stands aloof 
Where the sandstone ends, and the 
red slate roof 
Juts over the window, low and square, 
That looks on the wild sea-w r ater. 

From the top of the hill so green and 
high 
There slopeth a level of golden moss, 
That bars of scarlet and amber cross, 

And rolling out to the farther sky 
Is the world of wild sea-water. 

Some starved grape-vineyards round 
about — 
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts — 
A little cluster of fisher's huts, 
And the black sand scalloping in and 
out 
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea- 
water. 



208 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Gray fragments of some border tow- 
ers, 
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound, 
With a furrow deeply worn all round 
By the feet of children through the 
flowers, 
And all by the wild sea-water. 

And there, from the silvery break o' th' 
day 
Till the evening purple drops to the 

land, 
She sits with her cheek like a rose in 
her hand, 
And her sad and wistful eyes one 
way — 
The way of the wild sea-water. 

And there, from night till the yellowing 
morn 
Falls over the huts and th' scallops 

of sand — 
A tangle of curls like a torch in her 
hand — 
She sits and maketh her moan so 
lorn, 
With the moan of the wild sea- water. 

Only a study for homely eyes, 
And never a picture poet would 

paint ; 
But I hold the woman above the 
saint, 
And the light of the humblest hearth I 
prize 
O'er the luminous air-built castle. 



THE WEST COUNTRY. 

Have you been in our wild west coun- 
try ? then 

You have often had to pass 
Its cabins lying like birds' nests in 

The wild green prairie grass. 

Have you seen the women forget their 
wheels 

As they sat at the door to spin — 
Have you seen the darning fall away 

From their fingers worn and thin, 

As they asked you news of the vil- 
lages 

Where they were used to be, 
Gay girls at work in the factories 

With their lovers gone to sea ! 



Ah, have you thought of the brav 
ery 

That no loud praise provokes — 
Of the tragedies acted in the lives 

Of poor, hard-working folks ! 

Of the little more, and the little 
more 

Of hardship which they press 
Upon their own tired hands to make 

The toil for the children less : 

And not in vain ; for many a lad 
Born to rough work and ways, 

Strips off his ragged coat, and makes 
Men clothe him with their praise. 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

When skies are growing warm and 
bright, 

And in the woodland bowers 
The Spring-time in her pale, faint 
robes 

Is calling up the flowers, 
When all with naked little feet 

The children in the morn 
Go forth, and in the furrows drop 

The seeds of yellow corn ; 
What a beautiful embodiment 

Of ease devoid of pride 
Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 

With its doors set open wide ! 

But when the happiest time is come, 

That to the year belongs, 
When all the vales are filled with gold 

And all the air with songs ; 
When fields of yet unripened grain, 

And yet ungarnered stores 
Remind the thrifty husbandman 

Of ampler threshing-floors, 
How pleasant, from the din and dust 

Of the thoroughfare aloof, 
Stands the old-fashioned homestead, 

With steep and mossy roof ! 

When home the woodsman plods with 
axe 

Upon his shoulder swung, 
And in the knotted apple-tree 

Are scythe and sickle hung ; 
When low about her clay-built nest 

The mother swallow trills, 
And decorously slow, the cows 

Are wending down the hills ; 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



209 



What a blessed picture of comfort 
In the evening shadows red. 

Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 
With its bounteous table spread ! 

And when the winds moan wildly, 

When the woods are bare and brown, 
And when the swallow's clay-built 
nest 

From the rafter crumbles down ; 
When all the untrod garden-paths 

Are heaped with frozen leaves, 
And icicles, like silver spikes, 

Are set along the eaves ; 
Then when the book from the shelf is 
brought, 

And the fire-lights shine and play, 
In the good old-fashioned homestead, 

Is the farmer's holiday ! 



But 



be 



fringed 



whether the brooks 
with flowers, 
Or whether the dead leaves fall, 
And whether the air be full of songs, 

Or never a song at all, 
And whether the vines of the straw 
berries 
Or frosts through the grasses run, 
And whether it rain or whether 
shine 
Is all to me as one. 
For bright as brightest sunshine 
The light of memory streams 
Round the old-fashioned homestead, 
Where I dreamed my dream 
dreams ! 



it 



of 



CONTRADICTION. 

I love the deep quiet — all buried in 
leaves, 
To sit the day long just as idle as 
air, 
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, 
and weaves, 
And toadstools come up in a row 
round my chair. 

I love the new furrows — the cones of 
the pine, 
The grasshopper's chirp, and the 
hum of the mote ; 
And short pasture-grass where the 
clover-blooms shine 
Like red buttons set on a holiday 
coat. 

14 



Flocks packed in the hollows — the 
droning of bees. 
The stubble so brittle — the damp 
and flat fen ; 
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters 
of trees, 
And children and books, but not 
women nor men. 

Yet, strange contradiction ! I live in 
the sound 
Of a sea-girdled city — 't is thus that 
it fell, 
And years, oh, how many ! have gone 
since I bound 
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at 
a well. 

And if, kindly reader, one moment you 
wait 
To measure the poor little niche that 
you fill, 
I think you will own it is custom or fate 
That has made you the creature you 
are, not your will. 



MY DREAM OF DREAMS. 

Aloxe within my house I sit ; 

The lights are not for me, 
The music, nor the mirth ; and yet 

I lack not company. 

So gayly go the gay to meet, 
Nor wait my griefs to mend — 

My entertainment is more sweet 
Than thine, to-night, my friend. 

Whilst thou, one blossom in thy hand, 

Bewail'st my weary hours, 
Upon my native hills I stand 

Waist-deep among the flowers. 

I envy not a joy of thine ; 

For while I sit apart 
Soft summer, oh, fond friend of mine, 

Is with me in my heart. 



Aye, 



m young 



to-night 



aye, I 
more ; 
The years their hold have loosed, 
And on the dear old homestead door 
I 'm watching, as I used, 

The sunset hang its scarlet fringe 
Along the low white clouds, 



once 



2IO 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



While, radiant with their tender tinge, 
My visions come in crowds. 

The doves fly homeward over me, 
The red rose bravely gleams, 

And first and last and midst I see 
The dream of all my dreams. 

I need not say what dream it was, 
Nor how in life's lost hours 

It made the glory of the grass 
The splendor of the flowers. 

I need not wait to paint its glow 
With rainbow light nor sun ; 

Who ever loved that did not know 
There is no dream but one ? 

My frosty locks grow bright and brown ; 

My step is light once more ; 
The world now dropping darkly down 

Comes greenly up before. 

Comes greenly up before my eyes, 
With gracious splendor clad, 

That world which now behind me 
lies 
So darkly dim, so sad. 

Shot over with the purpling morn, 

I see the long mists roll, 
And hear bengath the tasseled corn 

The winds make tender dole. 

I hear, and all my pulses rouse 
And give back trembling thrills, 

The farm-boy calling with his cows 
The echoes from the hills. 

So soft the plashing of the rain 
Upon the peach-tree leaves, 

It hardly breaks the silvery skein 
The dark-browed spider weaves. 

The grasshopper so faintly cries 
Beneath the dock's round burs 

That in the shadow where she lies 
The silence scarcely stirs. 

Bright tangles of the wings of birds 

Along the thickets shine, 
But oh, how poor are common words 

To tell of bliss divine ! 

So let thy soft tears cease to fall, 
My friend, nor longer wait ; 

I have my recompense for all 
Thou pitiest in my fate, 



The joys thou hold'st within thy glance 
Thou canst not make to last ; 

Mine are uplifted to romance — 
Immortal, changeless, fast. 

When pleasures fly too far aloof, 

Or pain too sorely crowds, 
I go and sit beneath my roof 

Of golden morning clouds. 

There back to life my dead hope starts, 
And well her pledge redeems, 

As close within my heart of hearts 
I hug my dream of dreams. 



IN THE DARK, 

Has the spring come back, my darling, 
Has the long and soaking rain 
Been moulded into the tender leaves 
Of the gay and growing grain — 
The leaves so sweet of barley and 

wheat 
All moulded out of the rain ? 
Oh, and I would I could see them grow, 
Oh, and I would I could see them blow, 
All over field and plain — 
The billows sweet of barley and wheat 
All moulded out of the rain. 

Are the flowers dressed out, my dar- 
ling, 
In their kerchiefs plain or bright — 
The groundwort gay, and the lady of 

May, 
In her petticoat pink and white ? 
The fair little flowers, the rare little 

flowers, 
Taking and making the light ? 
Oh, and I would I cOuld see them all, 
The little and low, the proud and tall, 
In their kerchiefs brave and bright, 
Stealing out of the morns and eves, 
To braid embroidery round their 

leaves, 
The gold and scarlet light. 

Have the birds come back, my darling, 

The birds from over the sea ? 

Are they cooing and courting together 

In bush and bower and tree ? 

The mad little birds, the glad little 

birds, 
The birds from over the sea ! 
Oh, and I would I could hear them 

sing, 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



1 I l 



Oh. and I would I could sec them The rose pays the sun for his kiss with 



S w I n<j; 
In the top of <>ur garden tree ! 
The mad little birds, the glad little 

birds. 
The birds from over the sea ! 

Arc they building their nests, my dar- 

lit 
In the stubble, brittle and brown ? 
Are they gathering threads, and silken 

shrt 
And wisps of wool and down. 



her blushes. 
And all things pay tithes to thee — 
all things but me. 

At even, the fire-flies trim with their 
glimmers 
The wild, weedy skirts of the field 
and the wood : 
At morning, those dear little yellow- 
winged swimmers. 
The butterflies, hasten to make their 
place good. 



With their silver throats and speckled The violet, always so white and so 

saintly ; 
The cardinal, warming the frost with 
her blaze ; 



coats. 
And eyes so bright and so brown ? 
Oh, and I would" I could see them make 



And line their nests for loves sweet The ant, keeping house at her sand- 



sake. 
With shreds of wool and down. 
With their eyes so bright and brown ! 



hearth so quaintly 
Reproaches my idle and indolent 
ways. 



When o'er the high east the red morn- 
ing is breaking. 
And driving the amber of starlight 
behind, 
O summer ! my beautiful, beautiful The land of enchantment I leave, on 

awaking, 
Is not so enchanted as that which I 
find. 



AX INVALID'S PLEA. 



summer 



I look in thy face, and I long so to 
live : 



comer. 
With all things to take, and with 
nothing to srive ? 



But ah ! hast thou room for an idle new- And when the low west by the sunset 

is flattered, 
And locust and katydid sing up their 
best, 
With all things to take of thy dear Peace comes to my thoughts, that were 
loving-kindness. 
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of 
thy air : 



used to be fluttered, 
i doves when an 
darkens their nest. 



Like doves when an eagle's wing 



And with nothing to give but the deaf- 
ness and blindness 
Begot in the depths of an utter de- 



The green little grasshopper, weak as 
we deem her, 
spair .•' Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet 

right to live ; 
As if the gay harvester meant but to And canst thou, O summer ! make room 



screen her. 
The black spider sits in her low loom, 
and weaves : 
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed 
gleaner 
That bears in her brown arms the 
gold of the sheave-. 
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in 
the bushes 
Provokes from the robin a merrier 
glee ; 



for a dreamer, 
With all things to take, and with 

nothing to give ? 
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in 

thy shadows. 
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows 

to lie, 
And dream of the gates of the glorious 

meadows, 
Where never a rose of the roses 

shall die ! 




POEMS OF LOVE. 



THE BRIDAL VEIL. 

We 're married, they say, and you 

think you have won me, — 
Well, take this white veil from my head, 

and look on me ; 
Here 's matter to vex you, and matter 

to grieve you, 
Here 's doubt to distrust you, and faith 

to believe you, — 
I am all as you see, common earth, 

common dew : 
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not 

rue ! 

Ah ! shake out the filmy thing, fold 

after fold, 
And see if you have me to keep and to 

hold, — 
Look close on my heart — see the worst 

of its sinning, — 
It is not yours to-day for the yesterday's 

winning — 
The past is not mine — I am too proud 

to borrow — 
You must grow to new heights if I love 

you to-morrow. 

We 're married ! I 'm plighted to hold 
up your praises, 

As the turf at your feet does its hand- 
ful of daisies ; 

That way lies my honor, — my pathway 
of pride, 

But, mark you, if greener grass grow 
either side, 

I shall know it, and keeping in body 
with you, 

Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the 
dew ! 

We 're married ! Oh, pray that our 
love do not fail ! 



I have wings flattened down and hid 

under my veil : 
They are subtle as light— you can 

never undo them, 
And swift in their flight — you can 

never pursue them, 
And spite of all clasping, and spite of 

all bands, 
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from 

your hands. 

Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to 

take me, 
I am yours for my life-time, to be what 

you make me, — 
To wear my white veil for a sign, or a 

cover, 
As you shall be proven my lord, or my 

lover ; 
A cover for peace that is dead, or a 

token 
Of bliss that can never be written or 

spoken. 



PITILESS FATE. 

I saw in my dream a wonderful stream, 
And over the stream was a bridge so 
slender, 
And over the white there was scarlet 
light, 
And over the scarlet a golden splen- 
dor. 

And beyond the bridge was a goodly 
ridge 
Where bees made honey and corn 
was growing, 
And down that way through the gold 
and gray 
A gay young man in a boat was row- 
ing. 



POEMS OF LOT I-:. 213 


I could see from the shore that .1 rose 




he wore 


THE LOVER'S [NTERDICT. 


Stuck in his button-hole, rare as the 




r.u . 


Stop, traveler, just a moment at my 


And singing .1 song and rowing along, 


gate. 


1 guessed his face to be fair as the 


And I will give you news so very 


fairest. 


sweet 




That you will thank me. Where the 


1 .ill by the corn where the bees at 


branches meet 


morn 


Across your road, and droop, as with 


Made combs of honey — with breath- 


the weight 


ing bated, 


Of shadows laid upon them, pause, I 


I s.i\v by the stream (it was only a 


pray, 


dream) 


And turn aside a little from your 


A lovely lady that watched and 


way. 


waited. 






You see the drooping branches over- 


There were fair green leaves in her 


spread 


silken slee\ 


With shadows, as I told you — look 


And loose her locks in the winds 


you now 


were blowing, 


To the high elm-tree with the dead 


And she kissed to land with her milk- 


white bough 


white hand 


Loose swinging out of joint, and there, 


The gay young man in the boat a-row- 


with head 


ing. 


Tricked out with scarlet, pouring his 




wild lay, 


And all so light in her apron white 


You see a blackbird : turn your step 


She caught the little red rose he cast 
her, 
And, - Haste ! " she cried, with her 


that way. 


Holding along the honeysuckle hedge, 


arms so wide, 


Make for the meadows lying down 


u Haste, sweetheart, haste ! " but the 


so low ; 


boat was past her. 


Ah ! now I need not say that you 




must go 


And the gray so cold ran over the 


No farther than that little silver wedge 


gold, 


Of daisy-land, pushed inward by the 


And she sighed with only the winds 


flood 


to hear her — 


Betwixt the hills — you could not, if 


'" He loves me still, and he rowed with 


you would. 


a will. 




But pitiless Fate, not he, was steer- 


For you will see there, as the sun goes 


er !" 


down, 




And freckles all the daisy leaves 


And there till the morn blushed over 


with gold, 


the corn, 


A little maiden, in their evening 


And over the bees in their sweet 


fold 


combs humming, 


Penning two lambs — her soft, fawn- 


Her locks with the dew drenched 


colored gown 


through and through 


Tucked over hems of violet, by a 


She watched and waited for her false 


hand 


love's coming ! 


Dainty as any lady's in the land. 


But the maid to-day who reads my lay 


Such gracious light she will about her 


May keep her young heart light as a 


bring, 


feather — 


That, when the day, being wedded 


It was only a dream, the bridge and 


to the shade, 


the stream. 


Wears the moon's circle, blushing, 


And lady and lover, and all together. 


as the maid 



214 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Blushes to wear the unused marriage- 
ring, 

And all the quickened clouds do fall 
astir 

With daffodils, your thoughts will 
stay with her. 

No ornaments but her two sapphire 
eyes, 
And the twin roses in her cheeks 

that grow, 
The nice-set pearls, that make so 
fine a show 
When that she either softly smiles or 
sighs, 
And the long tresses, colored like a 

bee — 
Brown, with a sunlight shimmer. 
You will see, 

When you have ceased to watch the 

airy spring 
Of her white feet, a fallen beech 

hard by, 
The yellow earth about the gnarled 

roots dry, 
And if you hide there, you will hear 

her sing 
That song Kit Marlowe made so 

long ago — 
" Come live with me, and be my 

love," £ou know. 

Dear soul, you would not be at heav- 
en's high gate 

Among the larks, that constellated 
hour, 

Nor locked alone in some green- 
hearted bower 
Among the nightingales, being in your 
fate, 

By fortune's sweet selection, graced 
above 

All grace, to hear that — Come, and 
be my love ! 

But when the singer singeth down the 
sweets 

To that most maiden-like and lovely 
bed — 

All out of soft persuasive roses 
spread — 
You must not touch the fair and flow- 
ery sheets 

Even in your thought ! and from 
your perfect bliss 

I furthermore must interdict you 
this : 



When all the wayward mists, because 

of her, 
Lie in their white wings, moveless, 

on the air, 
You must not let the loose net of her 

hair 
Drag your heart to her ! nor from 

hushed breath stir 
Out of your sacred hiding. As you 

guess 
She is my love — this woodland 

shepherdess. 

The cap, the clasps, the kirtle fringed 

along 
With mvrtles, as the hand of dear 

old Kit 
Did of his cunning pleasure broider 

it, 
To ornament that dulcet piece of song 
Immortalled with refrains of — Live 

with me ! 
These to your fancy, one and all are 

free. 

But, favored traveler, ere you quit my 

gate, 
Promise to hold it, in your mind to 

be 
Enamored only of the melody, 
Else will I pray that all yon woody 

weight 
Of branch and shadow, as you pass 

along, 
Crush you among the echoes of the 

song. 



SNOWED UNDER. 

Come let us talk together, 

While the sunset fades and dies, 
And, darling, look into my heart, 

And not into my eyes. 

Let us sit and talk together 
In the old, familiar place, 

But look deep down into my heart, 
Not up into my face. 

And with tender pity shield me~- 
I am just a withered bough — 

I was used to have your praises, 
And you cannot praise me now. 

You would nip the blushing roses ; 
They were blighted long ago, 



J "OEMS OF LOVE. 21 5 


But the precious roots, my darling, 


But say there were; what is a rose the 


Are alive beneath the snow. 


less, 




When all from cast to west the May 


And in the coming spring-time 


is blazing, 


They will all to beauty start — 


That any tuneful bard her face should 


Oh, look not in my face, beloved. 


miss. 


But only in my heart ! 


And give her praising : 


You will not find the little buds. 


Yet say there did, and that her heart 


tender and so bright : 


did break, 


Thev are snowed so deeply under, 


As tells the romance of my early 


They will never come to light. 


reading. 




Then I that fair, fond flower for em- 


So look. I pray you. in my heart, 


blem take — 


And not into my face. 


Sir, are you heeding ? — 


And think about that coming spring 




Of greenness and of grace. 


Ave, say there were; and that she spent 




her days 


When from the winter-laden bough 


In ignorance of her proud poetic 


The weight of snow shall drop 


glory ; 


away. 


Only her soft death making to the praise 


And give it strength to spring into 


Of her brief story : 


The life of endless May. 






Even such a wild, bright flower, and so 




apart 




In her low modest house, my little 


AX EMBLEM. 


maid is — 




Sweet-hearted, shy, and strange to all 


What is my little sweetheart like, 


the art 


d' you say ? 


Of your fine ladies. 


A simple question, yet a hard, to 




answer ; 


So tender, that to death she needs must 


But I will tell you in my stammering 


grieve, 


way 


Stabbed by the glances of bold eyes, 


The best I can, sir. 


is certain ; 




Take you the emblem, then, and give 


When I was young — that's neither 


me leave 


here nor there — 


To drop the curtain. 


I read, and reading made my eyelids 




glisten : 




But I '11 repeat the story, if you care 




To stay and listen. 


QUEEN OF ROSES. 


A wild rose, born within a modest 


My little love hath made 


glen, 


A garden that all sweetest sweetness 


And sheltered by the leaves of thorny 


holds, 


bushes. 


And there for hours upon a piece of 


Drooped, being commended to the eyes 


shade 


of men. 


Fringed round with marjoram and 


And died of blushes. 


marigolds, 




She lieth dreaming, on her arm of 


Now, if there were — and one may well 


pearl. 


suppose 


My pretty little love — my garden- 


There never was a flower of such 


girl. 


rare splendor, 




Much less a rudely nurtured wilding 


The walks are one and all 


rose, 


Enriched along their borders wkh wild 


Withal so tender — 


mint, 



2l6 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And pinks, and gilliflowers, both 

large and small ; 
But where her little feet do leave a 

print, 
Whether on grass or ground, it doth 

displace 
And make of non-effect all other 

grace. 

Her speech is all so fair 
The winds disgraced, do from her pres- 
ence run, 
And when she combeth loose her 
heavenly hair 
She giveth entertainment to the sun. 
Oh, just to touch the least of all thy 

curls, 
My golden head — my queen of gar- 
den-girls. 

Her shawl-corners of snow 
Like wings drop down about her when 
she stands 
And never queen's lace made so fair 
a show 
As that doth, knitted in her two white 
hands ; 
The while some sudden look of cold 

surprise 
Shoots like an angry comet to her 
eyes. 

When she doth walk abroad 
Her subject flowers do one and all 
arise ; 
The low ones housed meekly in the 
sod 
Do kiss her feet — the lofty ones, her 
eyes. 
Oh sad for him whose seeing hath 

not seen 
My rose of roses, and my heart's 
dear queen. 

I 'm tying all my hours 
With sighs together — " Welladay ! ah 
me !" 
Because I cannot choose nor words, 
nor flowers, 
Wherewith to lure my love to marry 
me ! 
I '11 ask her what the wretched man 

must say 
Who loves a saint, and woo her just 
that way. 

Else in some honeyed phrase 
I '11 fit a barb no clearest sight can see, 



And toss it up and down all cunning 

ways, 
Until I catch and drag her heart to me ! 
Ah, then I '11 tease her, for my life of 

pain, 
For she shall never have it back 

again. 



NOW AND THEN. 

" Sing me a song, my nightingale, 
Hid in among the twilight flowers ; 
And make it low," he said, " I pray, 
And make it sweet." But she said, 
"Nay; 
Come when the morn begins to trail 
Her golden glories o'er the gray — 
Morn is the time for love's all-hail ! " 
He said, "The morning is not ours ! 

" Then give me back, my heart's de- 
light, 
Hid in among the twilight flowers, 
The kiss I gave you yesterday — 
See how the moon this way has leant, 
As if to yield a soft consent. 
Surely," he said, " you will requite 
My love in this ? " But she said, 

" Nay." . 
"Yea, now," he said. But she said, 

" Hush ! 
And come to me at morning-blush." 
He said, "The morning is not ours ! 

" But say, at least, you love me, love. 
Hid in among the twilight flowers ; 
No winds are listening, far or near — 
The sleepy doves will never hear." 
" Ah, leave me in my sacred glen ; 
And when the saffron morn shall 

close 
Her misty arms about the rose, 
Come, and my speech, my thought 

shall prove : — 
Not now," she said ; " not now, but 
then." 
He said, " The morning is not ours ! " 



THE LADY TO THE LOVER. 

Since thou wouldst have me show 
In what sweet way our love appears 

to me, 
Think of sweet ways, the sweetest 
that can be, 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



217 



And thou may'st partly dream, but 
canst not know \ 
For out of beaven do bliss — 
Disshadowed lies, like this. 

Therefore similitudes thou must forego. 

Thou seem'st myself s lost part. 

That hath, in a new compact, dearer 

close ; 
And if that thou shouldst take a 
broken rose 
And fit the leaves again about the heart, 
That mended flower would be 
A poor, faint sign to thee 
Of how one's self about the other grows. 

Think of the sun and dew 

Wailed in some little house of leaves 

from sight, 
Each from the other taking, giving 
light. 
And interpenetrated through and 
through : 
Feeding, and fed upon — 
All given, and nothing gone, 
And thou art still as far as clay from 
night. 

Sweeter than honey-comb 

To little hungry bees, when rude 

winds blow ; 
Brighter than wayside window-lights 
that glow- 
Through the cold rain, to one that has 
no home ; 
But out of heaven, no bliss 
Disshadowed lies, like this, — 
Therefore similitudes thou must forego. 



LOVE'S SECRET SPRINGS. 

Ix asking how I came to choose 

This flower that makes my brow to 
shine, 
You seem to say, you did not lose 
Your choice, my friend, when I had 
mine ! 
And by your lifted brow, exclaim, 
" What charms have charmed you ? 
name their name ! " 

Nay, pardon me — I cannot say 

These are the charms, and those the 
powers, 

And being in a trance one clay, 

I took her for my flower of flowers. 



Love doth not flatter what lie gives — 
But here, sir, are some negatives. 

'T is not the little milk-white hands 
That grace whatever work they do ; 

'T is not the braided silken bands 
That shade the eyes of tender blue ; 

And not the voice so low and sweet 

That holds me captive at her feet. 

'T is not in frowns, knit up with smiles, 
Wherewith she scolds me for my sins, 

Nor yet in tricksy ways nor wiles 
That I can say true love begins ! 

Out of such soil it did not grow ; 

It was, — and that is all I know. 

'T is not her twinkling feet so small. 

Nor shoulder glancing from her 
sleeve, 
Nor yet her virtues, one nor all — 

Love were not love to ask our leave ; 
She was not woed, nor was I won — 
What draws the dew-drop to the sun ? 

Pardon me, then, I cannot tell, — 
Xor can you hope to understand, — 

Why I should love my love so well ; 
Xor how, upon this border land, 

It fell that she should go with me 

Through time into eternity. 



AT SEA. 

Brown-faced sailor, tell me true — 
Our ship I fear is but illy thriving, 
Some clouds are black and some are 

blue, 
The women are huddled together 

below, 
Above the captain treads to and fro ; 
Tell me, for who shall tell but you, 
Whither away our ship is driving ! 

The wind is blowing a storm this way, 
The bubbles in my face are wink- 
ing — 
'T is growing dark in the middle of day 
And I cannot see the good green land, 
Nor a ridge of rock, nor a belt of sand ; 
Oh, kind sailor, speak and say, 

How long might a little boat be sink- 
ing ? 

More saucily the bubbles wink ; 

God's mercy keep us from foul 
weather, 



2l8 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And from drought with nothing but 

brine to drink. 
I dreamed of a ship with her ribs stove 

in, 
Last night, and waking thought of my 

sin ; 
How long would a strong man swim, 

d' y' think, 
If we were all in th' sea together ? 

The sailor frowned a bitter frown, 
And answered, "Aye, there will be 
foul weather, — 
All men must die, and some must 

drown, 
And there is n't water enough in the sea 
To cleanse a sinner like you or me ; 
O Lord, the ships I 've seen go down, 
Crew and captain and all together ! " 

The sailor smiled a smile of cheer, 

And looked at me a look of wonder, 
And said, as he wiped away a tear, 
" Forty years I 've been off the land 
And God has held me safe in his hand : 
He ruleth the storm — He is with us 
here, 
And his love for us no sin can sun- 
der." 



A CONFESSION. 

I know a little damsel 

As light of foot as the air, 
And with smile as gay 
As th' sun o' th ; May 

And clouds of golden hair. 
She sings with the larks at morning, 

And sings with the doves at e'en, 
And her cheeks they shine 
Like a rose on the vine, 

And her name is Charlamine. 
To plague me and to please me 

She knows a thousand arts, 
And against my will 
I love her still 

With all my heart of hearts ! 

I know another damsel 
With eyelids lowly weighed, 

And so pale is she 

That she seems to me 

Like a blossom blown in the shade. 

Her hands are white as charity, 
And her voice is low and sweet, 

And she runneth quick 



To the sinful and sick, 

And her name is Marguerite. 

The broken and bowed in spirit 
She maketh straight and whole, 

And I sit at her knee 

And she sings to me, 

And I love her with my soul. 

I know a lofty lady, 

And her name is Heleanore* 
And th' king o' the sky 
In her lap doth lie 

When she sitteth at her door. 
Her shoulder is curved like an eagle's 
wing 

When he riseth on his Way, 
And my two little maids 
They lay in braids 

Her dark locks day by day. 
Her heart in the folds of her ker- 
chief 

It doth not fall or rise, 
And afar I wait 
At her royal gate, 

And I love her with my eyes ! 

Now you that are wise in love-lore, 

Come teach your arts to me, 
For each of the darling damsels 

Is as sweet as she can be ! 
And if I wed with Charlamine 

Of the airy little feet. 
I shall sicken and sigh, 
I shall droop and die, 

For my gentle Marguerite ! 
And if I wed with Marguerite, 

Whom I so much adore, 
I shall long to go 
From her hand of snow 

To my Lady Heleanore ! 
And if I wed with Heleanore, 

Whom with my eyes I iove, 
'Gainst all that is right, 
In my own despite, 

I shall false and faithless prove. 



EASTER BRIDAL SONG. 

Haste, little fingers, haste, haste ! 

Haste, little fingers, pearly ; 
And all along the slender waist, 

And up and down the silken sleeves 

Knot the darling and dainty leaves, ■ 
And wind o' the south, blow light and 
fast, 

And bring the flowers so early ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



219 



Low, droop low, my tender ej 

Low, and all demurely, 

And make the shining scams to run 
Like little streaks o' th' morning sun 

Through silver clouds so purely : 
And tall, sweet rain, tall out o' th' skies, 

And bring the flowers so early ! 

!i. little hands, from the bended 
fact 
The tresses crumpled curly. 
Anil stitch the hem in the tri'll of snow 
And rive to the veil its misty flow. 

And melt, ye frosts, so surly : 
And shine out, spring, with your days 
of gnu 
And bring the flowers so early ! 



PRODIGAL'S PLEA. 

Shine down, little head, so fair, 
From thy window in the wall : 

Oh, my slighted golden hair. 

Like the sunshine round me fall — 

Little head, so fair, so bright. 

Fill my darkness with thy light ! 

Reach me down thy helping hand, 
Little sweetheart, good and true ; 

Shamed, and self-condemned, I stand, 
And wilt thou condemn me too ? 

Soilure of sin, be sure 

Cannot harm thy hand so pure. 

With thy quiet, calm my cry 

Pleading to thee from afar. 
Is it not enough that I 

With myself should be at war ? 
With thy cleanness, cleanse my blood ; 
With thy goodness, make me good. 

Eyes that loved me once, I pray, 
Be not crueller than death : 

Hide each sharp-edged glance away 
Underneath its tender sheath ! 

Make me not, sweet eyes, with scorn 

Mourn that ever I was born ! 

Oh. my roses ! are ye dead ; 

That in love's delicious day, 
Used to flower out ripe and red, 

Fast as kisses plucked away ? 
Turn thy pale cheek, little wife ; 
Let me warm them back to life. 

I have wandered, oh, so far ! 

From the way of truth and right ; 



Shine out for my guiding star. 

Little head, so dear and bright ; 
Dust of sin is on my brow — 
Good enough for both, art thou ! 



Till. SEAL FISHER'S WIFE. 



The west shines out through lines of 
jet, 

Like the side ot a fish through the 
fisher's net. 
Silver and golden-brown ; 
And rocking the cradle, she sings so 

low. 
As backward and forward, and to and 
fro, 
She cards the wool for her gown. 

She sings her sweetest, she sings her 

best, 
And all the silver fades in the west, 

And all the golden-brown, 
And lowly leaning cradle across, 
She mends the fire with faggots and 
moss, 
And cards the wool for her gown. 

Gray and cold, and cold and gray, 
Over the look-out and over the bay, 

The sleet comes sliding down, 
And the blaze of the faggots flickers 

thin, 
And the wind is beating the ice- 
blocks in. 
As she cards the wool for her gown. 

The fisher's boats in the ice are crushed. 
And now her lullaby-song is hushed, — 

For sighs the singing drown, — 
And all, with fingers stiff and cold, 
She covers the cradle, fold on fold, 

With the carded wool of her gown. 

And there — the cards upon her knee, 
And her eyes wide open toward the sea, 

Where the fisher's boats went 
down — 
They found her all as cold as sleet, 
And her baby smiling up so sweet, 

From the carded wool of her gown. 



CARMIA. 

My Carmia, my life, my saint, 
No flower is sweet enough to paint 
Thy sweet, sweet face for me ! 



220 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



The rose-leaf nails, the slender wrist, 
The hand, the whitest ever kissed — 
Dear Carmia, what has Raphael missed 



In never seeing thee ! 



Oh to be back among the days 
Wherein she blessed me with her 
praise — 

She knew not how to frown ! 
The memory of that time doth seem 
Like dreaming of a lovely dream, 
Or like a golden broider-seam 

Stitched in some homely gown. 

No silken skein is half so soft 
As^hose long locks I combed so oft — 

No tender tearful skies — 
No violet darkling into jet — 
And all with daybreak dew-drops 

wet — 
No star, when first the sun is set, 

Is like my Carmia's eyes. 

But not the dainty little wrist, 
Nor hand, the whitest ever kissed, 

Nor face, so sweet to see, 
Nor words of praise, that so did bless, 
Nor rose-leaf nail, nor silken tress, 

Made her so dear to me. 

'T was nothing my poor words can tell, 
Nor charm of chance, nor magic spell 

To wane, and waste, and fall — 
I loved her to. the utmost strain 
Of heart and soul and mind and brain, 
And Carmia loved me back again, 

And that is all-and-all ! 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

In the pleasant spring-time weather 

Rosy morns and purple eves — 
When the little birds together 

Sit and sing among the leaves, 
Then it seems as if the shadows, 

With their interlacing boughs, 
Had been hung above the meadows 

For the plighting of their vows ! 

In the lighter, warmer weather, 

When the music softly rests, 
And they go to work together 

For the building of their nests ; 
Then the branches, for a wonder, 

Seem uplifted everywhere, 
To be props and pillars under 

Little houses in the air. 



But when we see the meeting 

Of the lives that are to run 
Henceforward to the beating 

Of two hearts that are as one, 
When we hear the holy taking 

Of the vows that cannot break, 
Then it seems as if the making 

Of the world was for their sake. 



JENNIE. 

Now tell me all my fate, Jennie, — 
Why need I plainer speak ? 

For you see my foolish heart has bled 
Its secret in my cheek ! 

You must not leave me thus, Jennie, — 
You will not, when you know, 

It is my life you 're treading on 
At every step you go. 

Ah, should you smile as now, Jennie, 
When the wintry weather blows, 

The daisy, waking out of sleep, 

Would come up through the snows. 

Shall our house be on the hill, Jennie, 
Where the sumach hedges grow ? 

You must kiss me, darling, if it 's yes, 
And kiss me if it 's no. 

It shall be very fine — the door 

With bean-vines overrun, 
And th' window toward the harvest- 
field 

Where first our love begun. 

What marvel that I could not mow 
When you came to rake the hay, 

For I cannot speak your name, Jennie, 
If I 've nothing else to say. 

Nor is it strange that when I saw 

Your sweet face in a frown, 
I hung my scythe in the apple-tree, 
• And thought the sun was down. 

For when you sung the tune that ends 

With such a golden ring, 
The lark was made ashamed, and sat 

With her head beneath her wing, 

You need not try to speak, Jennie, 

You blush and tremble so, 
But kiss me, darling, if it 's yes, 

And kiss me if it's no ! 



POEMS OF LOVE. 



221 



MIRIAM. 

Likk to that little homely flower 

That never from her rough house 

stir S 
While summer lasts, but sits and combs 
The sunbeams with her purple burs, 

kept she in her house content 
While love's bright summer with her 
stayed : 
But change works change, and since 
she met 
shadow from the land of shade ; 

The ghost of that wild flower that 

In her rough house, and never stirs 
While summer lasts, has not a face 
So dead of meaning, as is hers. 

In vain the pitying year puts on 

Her rose-red mornings, for like 
streams 



Lost from the sunlight under banks 
Of wintry darkness, are her dreams. 

In vain among their clouds of green 
The wild birds sing — she says with 
tears 
Their sweet tongues stammer in the 
tunes 
They sang so well in other years. 

Her home in ruins lies, and thorns 
Choke with their briery arms, the 
door ; 

What matter, says she, since that love 
Will cross the threshold, never more. 



O winds ! ye are too rough, too 



rough ! 



O spring ! thou art not long enough 

For sweetness ; and for thee, 
O love ! thou still must overpass 
Time's low and dark and narrow glass, 
And fill eternity. 





POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



MOURN NOT. 

O mourner, mourn not vanished 
light, 
But fix your fearful hopes above ; 
The watcher, through the long, dark 
night, 
Shall see the daybreak of God's 
love. 

A land all green and bright and fair, 
Lies just beyond this vale of tears, 

And we shall meet, immortal there, 
The pleasures of our mortal years. 

He who to death has doomed our race, 
With steadfast faith our souls has 
armed, 

And made us children of his grace 
To go into the grave, unharmed. 

The storm may beat, the night may 
close, 
The face may change, the blood run 
chill, 
But his great love no limit knows, 
And therefore we should fear no ill. 



Dust as we are, and steeped in guilt, 
How strange, how wondrous, how 
divine, 

That He hath for us mansions built, 
Where everlasting splendors shine. 

Our days with beauty let us trim, 
As Nature trims with flowers the 
sod ; 
Giving the glory all to Him, — 

Our Friend, our Father, and our 
God. 



CONSOLATION. 

O friends, we are drawing nearer 
home 

As day by day goes by ; 
Nearer the fields of fadeless bloom, 

The joys that never die. 



Ye doubting souls, from doubt 
free, — 

Ye mourners, mourn no more, 
For every wave of death's dark sea 

Breaks on that blissful shore. 



be 



are 



high 



above our 



God's ways 
ways, — 

So shall we learn at length, 
And tune our lives to sing his praise 

With all our mind, might, strength. 

About our devious paths of ill 

He sets his stern decrees, 
And works the wonder of his will 

Through pains and promises. 

Strange are the mysteries He employs, 

Yet we his love will trust, 
Though it should blight our dearest 
joys, 

And bruise us into dust. 



UNDER THE SHADOW. 

My sorrowing friend, arise and go. 
About thy house with patient care ; 

The hand that bows thy head so low 
Will bear the ills thou canst not 
bear. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



223 



Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill. 

ad as thy day thy strength shall 
be; 

Were there no power beyond the ill. 
The ill could not have* come to thee. 

Though cloud and storm encompass 
thee. 
Be not afflicted nor afraid : 
a knowest the shadow could not 

be 

Were there no sun beyond the 
shade. 

For thy beloved, dead and gone. 

Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed ; 

Xor " open thy dark saying on 
The harp," as though thy faith were 
dead. 

Couldst thou even have them reap- 
pear 
In bodies plain to mortal sense. 
How were the miracle more clear 
To bring them than to take them 
hence ? 

Then let thy soul cry in thee thus 
No more, nor let thine eyes thus 
weep ; 

Nothing can be withdrawn from us 
That we have any need to keep. 

Arise, and seek some height to gain 
From life's dark lesson day by day, 

Not just rehearse its peace and pain — 
A wearied actor at the play. 

Nor grieve that will so much transcends 
Thy feeble powers, but in content 

Do what thou canst, and leave the ends 
And issues with the Omnipotent. 

Dust as thou art, and born to woe. 
Seeing darkly, and as through a glass. 

He made thee thus to be, for lo ! 

He made the grass, and flower of 
grass. 

The tempest's cry, the thunder's moan, 
The waste of waters, wild and dim. 

The still small voice thou hear"st 
alone — 
All, all alike interpret Him. 

Arise, my friend, and go about 

Thy darkened house with cheerful 
feet ; 



Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt. 

But, baffled, broken, still repeat : 

"'Tis mine to work, and not to win : 
The soul must wait to have her 
wings : 

Even time is but a landmark in 
The great eternity of things. 

" Is it so much that thou below. 

heart, shouldst fail of thy desire, 
When death, as we believe and know. 

Is but a call to come up higher ? " 



LOST LILIES. 

Show you her picture ? Here it lies ! 

Hands of lilies, and lily-like brow : 
Mouth that is bright as a rose, and eyes 

That are just the soul's sweetest 
overflow. 

Darling shoulders, softly pale, 
Borne by the undulating play 

Of the life below, up out of their veil. 
Like lilies out o' the waves o' the 
May. 

Throat as white as the throat of a swan, 
And all as proudly graceful held : 

Fair, bare bosom, " clothed upon 
With chastity," like the lady of eld. 

Tender lids, that drooping down, 
Chide your glances overbold ; 

Fair, with a golden gleam in the brown, 
And brown again in the gleamy gold. 

These on your eyes like a splendor fall, 
And you marvel not at my love, I 
see ; 
But it was not one. and it was not all, 
That made her the angel she was to 
me. 

So shut the picture and put it away, 
Your fancy is only thus misled : 

What can the dull, cold semblance say, 
When the spirit and life of the life is 
fled ? 

Seven long years, and seven again, 
And three to the seven — a weary 
space — 

The weary fingers of the rain 

Have drawn the daisies over her face. 



224 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Seven and seven years, and three, 
The leaves have faded to death in the 
frost, 
Since the shadow that made for me 
The world a shadow my pathway 
crossed. 

And now and then some meteor gleam 
Has broken the gloom of my life 
apart, 
Or the only thread of some raveled 
dream 
Has slid like sunshine in my heart. 

But never a planet, steady and still, 
And never a rainbow, brave and 
fine, 
And never the flowery head of a hill 
Has made the cloud of my life to 
shine. 

Yet God is love ! and this I trust, 
Though summer is over and sweet- 
ness done, 
That all my lilies are safe, in the 
dust, 
As they were in the glow of the great, 
glad sun. 

Yea, God is love, and love is might ! 
Mighty as surely to keep as to 
make.; 
And the sleepers, sleeping in death's 
dark night, 
In the resurrection of life shall 
wake. 



A WONDER. 

Still alway groweth in me the great 
wonder, 
When all the fields are blushing like 
the dawn, 
And only one poor little flower ploughed 
under, 
That I can see no flowers, that one 

being gone : 
No flower of all, because of one be- 
ing gone. 

Aye, ever in me groweth the great 

wonder, 
When all the hills are shining, white 

and red, 
And only one poor little flower ploughed 

under, 



That it were all as one if all were 

dead : 
Aye, all as one if all the flowers were 

dead. 

I cannot feel the beauty of the roses ; 
Their soft leaves seem to me but 
layers of dust ; 
Out of my opening hand each blessing 
closes : 
Nothing is left to me but my hope 

and trust, 
Nothing but heavenly hope and heav- 
enly trust. 

I get no sweetness of the sweetest 
places ; 

My house, my friends no longer com- 
fort me; 
Strange somehow grow the old familiar 
faces ; 

For I can nothing have, not having 
thee : 

All my possessions I possessed 
through thee. 

Having, I have them not — strange 
contradiction ! 
Heaven needs must cast its shadow 
on our earth ; 
Yea, drown us in the waters of afflic- 
tion 
Breast high, to make us know our 

treasure's worth, 
To make us know how much our love 
is worth. 

And while I mourn, the anguish of my 
story 

Breaks, as the wave breaks on the 
hindering bar : 
Thou art but hidden in the deeps of 
glory, 

Even as the sunshine hides the les- 
sening star, 

And with true love I love thee from 
afar. 

I know our Father must be good, not 
evil, 
And murmur not, for faith's sake, at 
my ill ; 
Nor at the mystery of the working 
cavil, 
That somehow bindeth all things in 

his will, 
And, though He slay me, makes me 
trust Him still: 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



22 Z 



MOST BELOVED. 

My heart thou makest void, and full : 
Thou giv'st. thou tak'st away my 
care : 

O most beloved ! most beautiful ! 
I miss, and find thee everywhere ! 

In the sweet water, as it flows ; 

The winds, that kiss me as they 
pas 
The starry shadow of the rose, 

Sitting beside her on the grass ; 

The daffodilly trying to bless 

With better light the beauteous air ; 

The lily, wearing the white dress 
Of sanctuary, to be more fair : 

The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier, 
That in the woods, so dim and 
drear. 

Lights up betimes her tender fire 
To soothe the homesick pioneer; 

The moth, his brown sails balancing 
Along the stubble, crisp and dry ; 

The ground-flower, with a blood-red 
ring 
On either hand ; the pewet's cry ; 

The friendly robin's gracious note : 
The hills, with curious weeds o'er- 
run : 
The althea, in her crimson coat 

Tricked out to please the wearied 
sun : 

The dandelion, whose golden share 
Is set before the rustic's plough ; 

The hum of insects in the air ; 

The blooming bush ; the withered 
bough ; 

The coming on of eve : the springs 

Of daybreak, soft and silver bright ; 
The frost, that with rough, rugged 
wings 
Blows down the cankered buds ; the 
white, 

Long drifts of winter snow : the heat 

Of August falling still and wide : 
Broad corn fields : one chance stalk of 
wheat, 
Standing with bright head hung 
aside : 

15 



All things, my darling, all things seem 
In some strange way to speak of 
thee ; 

Nothing is half so much a dream, 
Nothing so much reality. 



MY DARLINGS. 

WHEN steps are hurrying homeward, 
And night the world overspreads, 

And I see at the open windows 
The shining of little heads, 

I think of you, my darlings. 

In your low and lonesome beds. 

And when the latch is lifted, 
And I hear the voices glad, 

I feel my arms more empty, 
My heart more widely sad ; 

For we measure dearth of blessings 
By the blessings we have had. 

But sometimes in sweet visions 
My faith to sight expands, 

And with my babes in his bosom, 
My Lord before me stands, 

And I feel on my head bowed lowly 
The touches of little hands. 

Then pain is lost in patience, 
And tears no longer flow 7 : 

They are only dead to the sorrow 
And sin of life, I know ; 

For if they were not immortal 
My love would make them so. 



IX DESPAIR. 

I KNOW not what the world may be, — 

For since I have nor hopes nor fears, 

All things seem strange and far to me, 

As though I had sailed on some sad 

sea, 

For years and years, and years and 

years ! 

Sailed through blind mists, you under- 
stand, 
And leagues of bleak and bitter 
foam : 
Seeing belts of rock and bars of sand. 
But never a strip of flowery land, 
And never the light of hearth or 
home. 



226 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



All day and night, all night and day, 
I sit in my darkened house alone ; 
Come thou, whose laughter sounds so 

Come hither, for charity come ! and 
say 
What flowers are faded, and what 
are blown. 

Does the great, glad sun, as he used 
to, rise ? 
Or is it always a weary night ? 
A shadow has fallen across my eyes, 
Come hither and tell me about the 
skies, — 
Are there drops of rain ? are there 
drops of light ? 

Keep not, dear heart, so far away, 
With thy laughter light and laughter 
low, 
But come to my darkened house, I 

pray, 
And tell me what of the fields to- 
day, — 
Or lilies, or snow ? or lilies, or 
snow ? 

Do the hulls of the ripe nuts hang 

aparf ? 
Do the leaves of the locust drop in the 

well ? 
Or is it the time for the buds to start ? 
O gay little heart, O little gay heart, 
Come hither and tell, come hither 

and tell ! 

The day of my hope is cold and dead, 
The sun is down and the light is 
gone ; 
Come hither thou of the roses red, 
Of the gay, glad heart, and the golden 
head, 
And tell of the dawn, of the clew and 
the dawn. 



WAIT. 

Go not far in the land of light ! 

A little while by the golden gate, 
Lest that I lose you out of sight, 

Wait, my darling, wait. 

Forever now from your happy eyes 
Life's scenic picture has passed 
away ; 



You have entered into realities, 
And I am yet at the play ! 

Yet at the play of time — through all, 
Thinking of you, and your high es- 
tate ; 
A little while, and the curtain will 
fall — 
Wait, my darling, wait ! 

Mine is a dreary part to do — 
A mask of mirth on a mourning 
brow ; 
The chance approval, the flower or 
two, 
Are nothing — nothing now ! 

The last sad act is drawing on ; 

A little while by the golden gate 
Of the holy heaven to which you are 
gone, 

Wait, my darling, wait. 



THE OTHER SIDE. 

I dreamed I had a plot of ground. 

Once on a time, as story saith, 
All closed in and closed round 

With a great wall, as black as 
death. 

I saw a hundred mornings break, 
So far a little dream may reach ; 

And, like a blush on some fair cheek, 
The spring-time mantling over each. 

Sweet vines o'erhung, like vernal 
floods, 
The wall, I thought, and though I 
spied 
The glorious promise of the buds, 
They only bloomed the other side. 

Tears, torments, darkened all my 
ground, 
Yet Heaven, by starts, above me 
gleamed ; 
I saw, with senses strangely bound, 
And in my dreaming knew I 
dreamed. 

Saying to my heart, these things are 
signs 

Sent to instruct us that 't is ours 
Duly to dress and keep our vines, 

Waiting in patience for the flowers. 



POEA AND CONSOLATION. 



~> ~> j 



But when the angel, feared by .ill. 
Across my hearth his shadow spread, 

The rose th.it climbed my garden wall 
Had bloomed, the other side, I said. 



A WINTRY WASTE. 

THE boughs they Mow across the 

pane. 
And my heart is stirred with sudden 

joy, 
For I think t is the shadow 01 my 

bow 
My long lost boy. come home again 
To love, and to live with me : 
And I put the work from off my knee. 
And open the door with eager haste — 
There lieth the cold, wild winter waste. 
And that is all I see ! 

The boughs they drag against the 
eaves, 

I hear them early. I hear them late. 

And I think "t is the latch of the door- 
yard gate. 
Or a step on the frozen leaves. 

And I say to my heart, he is slow r , he 
is slow. 

And I call him loud and I call him 
low, 

And listen, and listen, again and 
again. 

And I see the wild shadows go over 
the pane. 

And the dead leaves, as they fall, 

I hear, and that is all. 

But fancy only half deceives — 
My joys are counterfeits of joy, 
For I know he never will come, my 
box : 
And I see through my make-be- 
lieves. 
Only the wintry waste of snow. 
Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so 
low. 
And so far from the light and me : 
And boughs go over the window-pane, 
And drag on the lonely eaves, in 
vain, — 
That waste is all I see. 



THE SHADOW. 

Ix vain the morning trims her brows, 
A shadow all the sunshine shrouds : 



The moon at evening vainly ploughs 
Her -olden furrows in the clouds. 

In vain the morn her splendor hath ; 

The stars, in vain, their gracious 
cheer ; 
There moves a phantom on my path, 

A >hapeless phantom that I fear. 

The summer wears a weary smile, 
A weary hum the woodland fills : 

The dusty road looks tired the while 
It climbs along the sleepy hills. 

Still do I strive to build my song 
Against this grim aggressive gloom ; 

O hope. I say. be strong, be strong ! 
Some special, saving grace must 
come. 



their 



I sit and talk of sunnier skies, 
Of flowers with healing in 
gleams. 

But still the shapeless shadow flies 
Before me to the land of dreams. 



O friends of mine, who sit dismayed 
And watch, I cry. with bated breath ; 

Yet from their answering shrink afraid, 
Lest that they name the name of 
Death. • 



HOW PEACE CAME. 

As the still hours toward midnight 
wore, 
She called to me — her voice was 

low 
And soft as snow that falls in 
snow — 
She called my name, and nothing 
more. 

Sleeping, I felt the life-blood stir 
With piercing anguish all my 

heart — 
I felt my dreams like curtains part, 
And straightway passed through them 
to her. 

Yet, 'twixt my answer and her call, 
My thoughts had time enough to 

run 
Through everything that I had done 
From my youth upward. One and 
all. 



228 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



The harmful words which I had said — 
The sinful thoughts, the looks un- 
true, 
Straight into fearful phantoms grew, 

And ranged themselves about her bed. 

Weeping, I called her names most 
sweet, 
But still the phantoms, evil-eyed, 
Between us stood, and though I 
died, 
I could not even touch her feet. 

My soul within me seemed to groan — 
My cheek was burning up with 

shame — 
I called each dark deed by its name, 

And humbly owned it for my own. 

My tongue was loosed — my heart 
was free — 
I took the little shining head 
Betwixt my palms — the phantoms 
fled. 
And Heaven was moved, and came to 
me. 



BE STILL. 

Come, bring me wild pinks from the 
valleys, 

Ablaze with the fire o' the sun — 
No poor little pitiful lilies 

That speak of a life that is done ! 

And open the windows to lighten 
The wearisome chamber of pain — 

The eyes of my darling will brighten 
To see the green hill-tops again. 

Choose tunes with a lullaby flowing, 
And sing through the watches you 
keep 

Be soft with your coming and going — 
Be soft ! she is falling asleep. 

Ah, what would my life be without 
her! 

Pray God that I never may know ! 
Dear friends, as you gather about her, 

Be low with your weeping — be low. 

Be low, oh, be low with your weep- 
ing ! 

Your sobs would be sorrow to her ; 
I tremble lest while she is sleeping 

A rose on her pillow should stir. 



Sing slower, sing softer and slower ! 

Her sweet cheek is losing its red — 
Sing low, aye, sing lower and lower - 

Be still, oh, be still ! She is dead. 



VANISHED. 

Out of the wild and weary night 
I see the morning softly rise, 
But oh, my lovely, lovely eyes ! 

The world is dim without your light. 

I see the young buds break and start 
To fresher life when frosts are o'er. 
But oh, my rose-red mouth ! no 
more 

Will kiss of yours delight my heart. 



glorious wings 



The worm that knows nor hope nor 
trust 
Comes forth with 

dispread, 
But oh, my little golden head ! 
I see you only in the dust. 

I hear the calling of the lark, 

Despite the cloud, despite the rain ; 
But oh, my snow-white hands ! in 
vain 

I search to find you through the dark. 

When the strong whirlwind's rage is 
o'er, 

A whisper bids the land rejoice ; 

But oh, my gentle, gentle voice 
Your music gladdens me no more. 

But though no earthly joy dispel 

This gloom that fills my life with woe, 
My sweetest, and my best ! I know ' 

That you are still alive and well. 

Alive and well: oh, blissful thought ! 

In some sweet clime, I know not 
where ; 

I only know that you are there, 
And sickness, pain, and death are not. 



SAFE. 

Ah, she was not an angel to adore, 
She was not perfect — she was only 

this : 
A woman to be prattled to, to kiss, 
To praise with all SAveet praises, and 
before 



GRIEF AND CONSOLATION 



22Q 



Whose lace you never were ashamed 

to lay 
The affections o\ your pride away. 

I have kept Fancy traveling to and fro 

Full many an hour, to rind what 

name were best. 
If there were any sweeter than the 

res 
That I might always call my darling 

SO : 
And this of woman seems to me the 

sweetest. 
The finest, the most gracious, the 

completest. 

The dust she wore about her I agree 
Was poor and sickly, even to make 

you sad. 
But this rough world we live in never 
had 
An ornament more excellent than she ; 
The earthly dress was all so frail 
that you 
Could see the beauteous spirit shining 
through. 

Not what she was, but what she was 
to me 
Is what I fain would tell — from her 
was drawn 

The softness of the eve, the light of 
dawn : 

With her and for her I could only see 
What things were sweet and sen- 
sible and pure ; 

Now all is dull, slow guessing, nothing 
sure. 

My sorrow with this comfort yet is 
stilled — 
I do not dread to hear the winter 

stir 
His wild winds up — I have no fear 
for her : 
And all my love could never hope to 
build 
A place so sweet beneath heaven's 
arch of blue, 
As she by death has been elected to. 



WAITING. 

Ah yes, I see the sunshine play, 
I hear the robin's cheerful call, 

But I am thinking of the day 
My darling left me — that is all. 



I do not grieve tor her — ah no! 

her the way is clear, I trust : 
But tor myself I grieve, so low, 
So weak, so in, and of the dust. 

Ami for my sadness I am sad — 
I would be gay it so 1 might, 

But she was all the joy I had — 

My life, my love, my heart's delight, 

We came together to the door 
Of our sweet home that is to be, 

And knowing, she went in before, 
To put on marriage robes for me. 

'T is weary work to wait so long, 
But true love knows not how to doubt ; 

God's wisdom fashions seeming wrong, 
That we may find right meanings 
out. 



INTIMATIONS. 

There is hovering about me 

A power so sweet, so sweet, 
That 1 know, despite my sorrow, 

We assuredly shall meet. 
I know, and thus the darkness 

In between us, is defied, 
That death is but a shadow 

With the sunshine either side. 

The world is very weary, 

But I never cease to know 
That still there is a border-land 

Where spirits come and go : 
For you send me intimations 

In the morning's gentle beams, 
And at night you come and meet me 

In the golden gate of dreams. 

I am desolate and dreary, 

But mortal pain and doubt 
Are blessings, and our part it is 

To find their meanings out : 
To find their blessed meanings, 

And to wait in hope and trust, 
Till our gracious Lord and Master 

Shall redeem. us from the dust. 



THE GREAT QUESTION. 

" How are the dead raised up, and with what body 
do they come?" 

The waves, they are wildly heaving, 
And bearing me out from the shore, 



230 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And I know of the things I am leaving, 
But not of the things before. 

O Lord of love, whom the shape of a 
dove 
Came down and hovered o'er, 

Descend to-night with heavenly light, 
And show me the farther shore. 

There is midnight darkness o'er me, 

And 't is light, more light, I crave ; 
The billows behind and before me 

Are gaping, each with a grave : 
Descend to-night, O Lord of might, 

Who died our souls to save ; 
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light, 

And walk with me on the wave ! 

My heart is heavy to breaking 

Because of the mourners' sighs, 
For they cannot see the awak'ning, 

Nor the body with which we arise. 
Thou, who for sake of men didst break 

The awful seal of the tomb — 
Show them the way into life, I pray, 

And the body with which we come ! 



Comfort their pain and pining 

For the nearly wasted sands, 
With the many mansions shining 

In the house not made with hands : 
And help them by faith to see through 
death 

To that brighter and better shore, 
Where they never shall weep who are 
fallen asleep 

And never be sick any more. 



What comfort, when with clouds of 
woe 
The heart is burdened, and must 
weep, 
To feel that pain must end, — to know, 
" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

When in the mid-day march we meet 
The outstretched shadows of the 
night, 

The promise, how divinely sweet, 
" At even-time it shall be light." 





RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



THANKSGIVING. 

For the sharp conflicts I have had 
with sin, 
Wherein, 
I have been wedged and pressed 

rh unto death, I thank thee, with 
the rest 
Of my befallings, Lord, of brighter 
guise, 
And named by mortals, good. 
Which to my hungry heart have given 
food. 
Or costly entertainment to my eyes. 

For I can only see, 
With spirit truly reconciled to thee, 
In the sad evils with our lives that 
blend, 

A means, and not an end : 

Since thou wert free 
To do thy will — knewest the bitter 

worth 
Of sin, and all its possibility, 

Ere that, by thy decree, 
The ancient silence of eternity 
Was broken by the music of man's 
birth. 

Therefore I lay my brows 
Discrowned of youth, within thy gra- 
cious hands, 
Or rise while daybreak dew is on the 

boughs 
To strew thy road with sweets, for thy 

commands 
Do make the current of my life to run 
Through lost and cavernous ways, 
Bordered with cloudy days, 
In its slow working out into the sun. 



Hills, clap your hands, and all ye mount- 
ains, shout : 
Hie, fainting hart, to where the waters 

flow ; 
Children of men, put off your fear and 

doubt ; 
The Lord who chasteneth, loveth you, 

for, lo ! 
The wild herb's wounded stalk He 

cares about, 
And shields the ravens when the rough 

winds blow : 
He sendeth down the drop of shining 

dew 
To light the daisy from her house 

of death, 
And shall He, then, forget the like of 

you, 
O ye, of little faith ! 

He speaketh to the willing soul and 
heart 
By dreams, and in the visions of the 
night, 
And happy is the man who, for his part, 

Rejoiceth in the light 
Of all his revelations, whether found 
In the old books, so sacredly upbound, 
And clasped with golden clasps, or 
whether writ 
Through later instillations of his 
power, 
Where he that runneth still perceiveth it 
Illuminating every humble flower 
That springeth from the ground. 

His testimony all the time is sure ; 
The smallest star that keepeth in the 
night 
His silver candle bright, 
And every deed of good that anywhere 



232 



Maketh the hands of holy women white ; 
All sweet religious work, all earnest 

prayer, 
Of uttered, or unutterable speech ; 
Whatever things are peaceable and 

pure, 
Whatever things are right, 
These are his witnesses, aye, all and 

each ! 

Thrice happy is the man who doth 
obey 

The Lord of love, through love ; who 
fears to break 

The righteous law for th' law's right- 
eous sake ; 

And who, by daily use of blessings, 
gives 

Thanks for the daily blessings he re- 
ceives ; 

His spirit grown so reverent, it dares 

Cast the poor shows of reverence away, 
Believing they 

More glorify the Giver, who partake 

Of his good gifts, than they who fast 
and make 

Burnt offerings and Pharisaic prayers. 

The wintry snows that blind 

The air, arrti blight what things were 
glorified 

By summer's reign, we do not think 
unkind 

When that we see them changed, afar 
and wide, 

To rain, that, fretting in the rose's face, 
Brings out a softer grace, 

And makes the troops of rustic daffo- 
dils 

Shake out their yellow skirts along the 
hills, 

And all the valleys blush from side to 
side. 

And as we climb the stair, 
Of rough and ugly fortune, by the props 
Of faith and charity, and hope and 

prayer, 
To the serene and beauteous mountain- 
tops 
Of our best human possibility, 
Where haunts the spirit of eternity, 
The world below looks fair. — 
Its seeming inequalities subdued, 
And level, all, to purposes of good. 

I thank thee, gracious Lord, 
For the divine award 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 

Of strength that helps me up the heavy 



heights 
Of mortal sorrow, where, through tears 

forlorn, 
My eyes get glimpses of the authentic 

lights 
Of love's eternal morn. 

For thereby do I trust 
That our afflictions springs not from 
the dust, 
And that they are not sent 
In arbitrary chastisement, 
Nor as avengers to put out the light 
And let our souls loose in some damned 

night 
That holds the balance of thy glory, 

just ; 
But rather, that as lessons they are 

meant, 
And as the fire tempers the iron, so 
Are we refined by woe. 

I thank thee for my common blessings^ 
still 
Rained through thy will 
Upon my head ; the air 

That knows so many tunes which grief 
beguile, 

Breathing its light love to me every- 
where, 

And that will still be kissing all the 
while, 

I thank thee that my childhood's van- 
ished days 
Were cast in rural ways, 

Where I beheld, with gladness ever 
new, 
That sort of vagrant dew 

Which lodges in the beggarly tents of 
such 

Vile weeds as virtuous plants disdain to 
touch, 

And with rough-bearded burs, night 
after night, 

Upgathered by the morning, tender and 
true, 
Into her clear, chaste light. 

Such ways I learned to kmnv 
That free will cannot go 
Outside of mercy ; learned to bless 

his name 
Whose revelations, ever thus renewed 
Along the varied year, in field and 
wood, 
His loving care proclaim. 



KEL/G/OLS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



z 33 



I thank thee that the grass and the red 

rose 

l what they can to tell 

How spirit through all forms of matter 
flows ; 

For every thistle by the common way 

Wearing its homely beauty, — for each 
spring 

That sweet and homeless, runneth 
where it will, — 
For night and day. 

For the alternate seasons, — every- 
thing 

Pertaining to life's marvelous miracle. 

Even for the lowly flower 
That, living, dwarfed and bent 
Under some beetling rock, in gloom 

profound, 
Far from her pretty sisters of the 
ground. 
And shut from sun and shower, 
Seemeth endowed with human discon- 
tent. 

Ah ; what a tender hold 
She taketh of us in our own despite, — 
A sadly-solemn creature, 
Crooked, despoiled of nature, 
Leaning from out the shadows, dull and 

cold, 
To lav her little white face in the 
'light. 

The chopper going by her rude abode, 
Thinks of his own rough hut, his old 
wife's smile, 
And of the bare young feet 
That run through th' frost to meet 
His coming, and forgets the weary load 
Of sticks that bends his shoulders down 
the while. 

I thank thee, Lord, that Nature is so 

wise, 
So capable of painting in men's eyes 
Pictures whose airy hues 
Do blend and interfuse 
With all the darkness that about us 
lies. — 
That clearly in our hearts 
Her law she writes. 
Reserving cunning past our mortal arts, 
Whereby she is avenged for all her 
slights. 

And I would make thanksgiving 
For the sweet, double living, 



That gives the pleasures that have 
passed away, 

The sweetness and the sunshine of 
to-day. 

I see the furrows ploughed and 
them planted. 
See the young cornstalks rising green 
and fair : 
Mute things are friendly, and I am ac- 
quainted 
With all the luminous creatures of 
the air : 
And with the cunning workers of the 
ground 
That have their trades born with 
them, and with all 
The insects, large and small, 
That fill the summer with a wave of 
sound. 
I watch the wood-bird line 
Her pretty nest, with eyes that never 

tire, 
And watch the sunbeams trail their 
wisps of fire 
Along the bloomless bushes, till they 
shine. 

The violet, gathering up her tender 
blue 
From th' dull ground, is a good sight 
to see ; 
And it delighteth me 
To have the mushroom push his round 
head through 
The dry and brittle stubble, as I pass, 
His smooth and shining coat, half rose 
half fawn, 
But just put on : 
And to have April slip her showery 
grass 
Under my feet, as she was used to do, 
In the dear spring-times gone. 

I make the brook, my Nile, 
And hour by hour beguile, 
Tracking its devious course 
Through briery banks to its mysterious 
source, 
That I discover, always, at my will, — 

A little silver star, 
Under the shaggy forehead of some 
hill, 
From traveled ways afar. 

Forgetting wind and flood, 
I build my house of unsubstantial sand, 
Shaping the roof upon my double hand, 



234 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



And setting up the dry and sliding 
grains, 
With infinite pains, 
In the similitude 
Of beam and rafter, — then 
Where to the ground the dock its broad 
leaf crooks, 
I hunt long whiles to find the little 
men 
That I have read of in my story-books. 

Often, in lawless wise, 
Some obvious work of duty I delay, 

Taking my fill 

Of an uneasy liberty, and still 

Close shutting up my eyes, 
As though it were not given me to 

see 
The avenging ghost of opportunity 

Thus slighted, far away. 

I linger when I know 
That I should forward go ; 
Now, haply for the katydid's wild shrill, 

Now listening to the low, 
Dull noise of mill-wheels — counting, 
now, the row 
Of clouds about the shoulder of the 
hill. 

My heart anew rejoices 
In th' old familiar voices 
That come back to me like a lulla- 
* by; 
Now 't is the church-bell's call, 
And now a teamster's whistle, — now, 
perhaps, 
The silvery lapse 
Of waters in among the reeds that 
meet ; 
And now, down-dropping to a whis- 
pery fall, 
Some milkmaid, chiding with love's 
privilege, 
Through the green wall 
Of the dividing hedge,. 
And the so sadly eloquent reply 

Of the belated cow-boy, low and 
sweet. 

I see, as in a dream, 
The farmer plodding home behind 
his team, 
With all the tired shadows following, 
And see him standing in his threshing- 
floor, 
The hungry cattle gathered in a ring 
About the great barn-door. 



I see him in the sowing, 
And see him in the mowing, 
The air about him thick with gray- 
winged moths : 
The day's work nearly over, 
And the long meadow ridged with 
double swaths 
Of sunset-light and clover. 

When falls the time of solemn Sabbath 
rest, 
In all he has of best 
I see him going (for he never fails) 
To church, in either equitable hand 
A shining little one, and all his band 
Trooping about him like a flock of 

quails. 
With necks bowed low, and hid to half 

their length 
Under the jutting load of new-made hay, 
I see the oxen give their liberal strength 
Day after day, 
And see the mower stay 
His scythe, and leave a patch of grass 
tc spread 
Its shelter round the bed 
Of the poor frighted ground-bird in his 
way. 

I see the joyous vine, 
And see the wheat set up its rustling 

spears, 
And see the sun with golden fingers 
sign 
The promise of full ears. 

I see the slender moon 

Time after time grow old and round in 
th' face, 

And see the autumn take the sum- 
mer's place, 
And shake the ripe nuts down, 

In their thick, bitter hulls of green and 
brown, 

To make the periods of the school- 
boy's tune : 

I see the apples, with their russet 
cheeks 
Shaming the wealth of June ; 

And see the bean-pods, gay with pur- 
ple freaks, 

And all the hills with yellow leaves o'er- 
blown, 

As through the fading woods I walk 
alone, 
And hear the wind o'erhead 

Touching the joyless boughs and mak- 
ing moan, 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



235 



Like some old crone, 
Who ow her withered fingers counts 
her dead. 

I hear the beetle's hum. and see the 
gnats 
Edging along the air in strings of 

. J et > 

And from their stubs I see the weak- 
eyed bats 
Flying an hour before the sun is set. 

Picture on picture crowds. 
And by the gray and priestlike silence 

'led. 
Comes the first star through evening's 
steely gates 
And chides the day to bed 
Within the ruddy curtains of the 
clouds : 
So gently com'st thou. Death. 
To him who waits. 
In the assurance of our blessed faith, 
To be acquainted with thy quiet arms. 
His good deeds, great and small. 
Builded about him like a silver 
wall. 
And bearing back the deluge of alarms. 

The mother cloth not tenderer appear 
When, from her heart her tired darling 

laid, 
She trims his cradle all about with 

shade. 
And will not kiss his sleepy eyes for 

fear. 

I see the windows of the homestead 
bright 
With the warm evening light, 
And by the winter fire 
I see the gray-haired sire 
Serenely sitting, 
Forgetful of the work-day toil and care, 
The old wife by his elbow, at her knit- 
ting ; 
The cricket on the hearth-stone sing- 

ing shrill, 
And the spoiled darling of the house at 
will 
Climbing the good man's chair, 
A furtive glimpse to catch 
Of her fair face in his round silver 

watch, 
That she in her high privilege must 
wear, 
And listen to the music that is in 

it, 
Though only for a minute. 



I thank thee. Lord, for every saddest 

cross | 
Gain comes to us through loss, 

The while we go, 
Blind travelers holding by the wall of 
time. 

And seeking out through woe 
The things that are eternal and sublime. 

Ah ! sad are they of whom no poet 

writes 
Nor ever any story-teller hears, — 
The childless mothers, who on lone- 
some nights 
; Sit by their fires and weep, having the 
chores 
Done for the day, and time enough to 
see 
All the wide floors 
Swept clean of playthings ; they, as 
needs must be, 
Have time enough for tears. 

But there are griefs more sad 

Than ever any childless mother had, — 

You know them, who do smother Nat- 
ure's cries 
Under poor masks 
Of smiling, slow despair, — 

Who put your white and unadorning 
hair 

Out of your way, and keep at homely 
tasks, 

Unblest with any praises of men's eyes. 

Till Death comes to you with his pit- 
eous care, 

And to unmarriageable beds you go, 

Saying, " It is not much ; 't is well, if so 
We only be made fair 

And looks of love await us when we 
rise." 

My cross is not as hard as theirs to 

bear. 
And yet alike to me are storms, or 

calms ; 
My life's young joy, 
The brown-cheeked farmer-boy, 
Who led the daisies with him like his 

lambs, — 
Carved his sweet picture on my milk- 

ing-pail, 
And cut my name upon his threshing- 
flail/ 
One day stopped singing at his plough ; 

alas ! 
Before that summer-time was gone, the 

grass 



236 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Had choked the path which to the 

sheep-field led, 
Where I had watched him tread 
So oft on evening's trail, — 
A shining oat-sheaf balanced on his 
head, 
And nodding to the gale. 

Rough wintry weather came, and when 

it sped, 
The emerald wave 
Swelling above my little sweetheart's 

grave, 
With such bright, bubbly flowers was 

set about, 
I thought he blew them out, 
And so took comfort that he was not 

dead. 

For I was of a rude and ignorant 

crew, 
And hence believed whatever things I 

saw * 
Were the expression of a hidden law ; 
And, with a wisdom wiser than I knew, 
Evoked the simple meanings out 

of things 
By childlike questionings. 

And he the^ named with shudderings 

of fear 
Had never, in his life, been half so 

near 
As when 1 sat all day with cheeks un- 

kissed, 
And listened to the whisper, very low, 
That said our love above death's wave 

of woe 
Was joined together like the seamless 

mist. 

God's yea and nay 
Are not so far away, 
I said, but I can hear them when I 
please ; 
Nor could I understand 
Their doubting faith, who only touch 

his hand 
Across the blind, bewildering centu- 
ries. 

And often yet, upon the shining track 
Of the old faith, come back 

My childish fancies, never quite sub- 
dued ; 

And when the sunset shuts up in the 
wood 

The whispery sweetness of uncertainty, 



And Night, with misty locks that 

loosely drop 
About his ears, brings rest, a welcome 

boon, 
Playing his pipe with many a starry 

stop 
That makes a golden snarling in his 

tune ; 

I see my little lad 
Under the leafy shelter of the boughs, 
Driving his noiseless, visionary cows, 
Clad in a beauty I alone can see : 

Laugh, you, who never had 
Your dead come back, but do not take 

from me 
The harmless comfort of my foolish 
dream, 
That these, our mortal eyes, 
Which outwardly reflect the earth and 
skies 
Do introvert upon eternity : 

And that the shapes you deem 
Imaginations, just as clearly fall ; 
Each from its own divine original, 
And through some subtle element of 

light, 
Upon the inward, spiritual eye, 
As do the things which round about 

them lie, 
Gross and material, on the external 

sight. 



Hope in our hearts doth only stay 

Like a traveler at an inn, 
Who riseth up at the break of day 

His journey to begin. 

Faith, when her soul has known the 
blight 

Of noisy doubts and fears^ 
Goes thenceforward clad in the light 

Of the still eternal years. 

Truth is truth : no more in the prayers 

Of the righteous Pharisee ; 
No less in the humblest sinner, that 
wears 

This poor mortality. 

But Love is greatest of all : no loss 
Can shadow its face with gloom, — 

As glorious hanging on the cross 
As breaking: out of the tomb. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



237 



MORNING 

Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me. 
The daybreak is nigh, — 

I can sec, through the half-open cur- 
tain, 
A >trip of blue sky. 

Von lake, in her valley-bed lyi: 

Looks fair as a bride, 
And pushes, to greet the sun's coming, 

The mist sheets aside. 

The birds, to the wood-temple flying, 

Their matins to chant. 
Are chirping their love to each other, 

With wings dropt aslant. 

Not a tree, that the morning's bright 
edges 

With silver illumes. 
But trembles and stirs with its pleasure 

Through all its green plumes. 

Wake, Dillie. and join in the praises 

All nature doth give : 
Clap hands, and rejoice in the good- 
ness 

That leaves you to live. 

For what is the world in her glory 

To that which thou art ? 
Thank God for the soul that is in 
you. — 

Thank God for your heart ! 

The world that had never a lover 

Her bright face to kiss. — 
With her splendors of stars and of 
noontides 

How poor is her bliss ! 

Wake, Dillie, — the white vest of 

morning 

With crimson is laced ; 

And why should delights of God's 

giving: 
© © 

Be running to waste ! 

Full measures, pressed down, are 
awaiting 

Our provident use ; 
And is there no sin in neglecting 

As well as abuse ? 

The cornstalk exults in its tassel. 
The flint in its spark. — 



1 shall the seed planted within me 
Rot OUt in the dark ? 

Shall I be ashamed to give culture 

To what God has sown ? 
When nature asks bread, shall I offer 

A serpent, or stone ? 

For could I out-weary its yearnings 

By fasting, or pain, — 
Would life have a better fulfillment. 

Or death have a gain ? 

Nay, God will not leave us unanswered 

In any true need ; 
His will may be writ in an instinct, 

As well as a creed. 

And. Dillie, my darling, believe me, 

That life is the best, 
That, loving here, truly a/id sweetly, 

With Him leaves the rest. 

Its head to the sweep of the whirlwind 

The wise willow suits. — 
While the oak, that 's too stubborn for 
bending. 

Comes up by the roots. 

Such lessons, each day, round about us, 
Our good Mother writes. — 

To show us that Nature, in some way, 
Avenges her slights. 



ONE DUST. 

Thou, under Satan's fierce control, 
Shall Heaven its final rest bestow ? 

I know not, but I know a soul 
That might have fallen as darklv low. 

I judge thee not, what depths of ill 
Soe'er thy feet have found, or trod ; 

I know a spirit and a will 
As weak, but for the grace of God. 

Shalt thou with full-day laborers stand. 
Who hardly canst have pruned one 
vine ? 

I know not, but I know a hand 
With an infirmity like thine. 

Shalt thou who hast with scoffers part. 

E'er wear the crown the Christian 
wears ? 
I know not; but I know a heart 

As flinty, but for tears and prayers. 



233 



THE POEMS OF ALICE GARY. 



Have mercy, O thou Crucified ! 

For even while I name thy name, 
I know a tongue that might have 
lied 
Like Peter's, and am bowed with 
shame. 

Fighters of good fights, — just, un- 
just, — 
The weak who faint, the frail who 
fall, — 
Of one blood, of the self-same dust, 
Thou, God of love, hast made them 
all. 



SIGNS OF GRACE. 

Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay 

Thy sorrow^ all aside, 
And let us see, if so we may, 

How God is glorified. 

Forget the storms that darkly beat, 

Forget the woe and crime, 
And tie of consolations sweet 

A posie for the time. 

Some blessed token everywhere 

Doth grace to men allow ; 
The daisy sets her silver share 

Beside the rustic's plough. 

The wintry wind that naked strips 

The bushes, stoopeth low, 
And round their rugged arms enwraps 

The fleeces of the snow. 

The blackbird, idly whistling till 

The storm begins to pour, 
Finds ever with his golden bill 

A hospitable door. 

From love, and love's protecting power 

We cannot go apart ; 
The shadows round the fainting flower 

Rebuke the drooping heart. 

Our strivings are not reckoned less, 

Although we fail to win ; 
The lily wears a royal dress, 

And yet she doth not spin. 

So, soul, forget thy evil days, 

Thy sorrow lay aside, 
And strive to see in all his ways 

How God is glorified. 



JANUARY. 

The year has lost its leaves again, 
The world looks old and grim ; 

God folds his robe of glory thus, 
That we may see but Him. 

And all his stormy messengers, 
That come with whirlwind breath, 

Beat out our chaff of vanity, 
And leave the grains of faith. 

We will not feel, while summer waits 
Her rich delights to share, 
What sinners, miserably bad, — 
How weak and poor we are. 

We tread through fields of speckled 
flowers 

As if we did not know 
Our Father made them beautiful, 

Because He loves us so. 

We hold his splendors in our hands 

As if we held the dust, 
And deal his judgment, as if man 

Than God could be more just. 

We seek, in prayers and penances, 

To do the martyr's part, 
Remembering not, the promises 

Are to the pure in heart. 

From evil and forbidden things, 
Some good we think to win, 

And to the last analysis 
Experiment with sin. 

We seek no oil in summer time 

Our winter lamp to trim, 
But strive to bring God down to us, 

More than to rise to Him. 

And when that He is nearest, most 
Our weak complaints we raise, 

Lacking the wisdom to perceive 
The mystery of his ways. 

For, when drawn closest to himself, 
Then least his love we mark ; 

The very wings that shelter us 
From peril, make it dark. 

Sometimes He takes his hands from us, 
When storms the loudest blow, 

That we may learn how weak, alone, — 
How strong in Him,- we grow. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



2 39 



Through the cross iron oi our free 
will 
id fate, we plead for light, 
- 1 Jod gave us uot enough 



• our work a 



We will not see, but madly take 

The wrong and crooked path. 
And in our own hearts light the tires 
Of a consuming wrath. 

The fashion of his Providence 

Our way is so above, 
We serve Him most who take the 
most 

Of his exhaustless love. 

We serve Him in the good we do, 
The blessings we embrace, 

Not lighting farthing candles for 
The palace of his grace. 

He has no need of our poor aid 

His purpose to pursue ; 
T is for our pleasure, not for his, 
That we his work must do. 

Then blow. O wild winds, as ye list, 
And let the world look grim, — 

God folds his robe of glory thus 
That we may see but Him. 



ALONE. 

What shall I do when I stand in my 
place, 
Unclothed of this garment of cloud 

and dust, 
Unclothed of this garment of selfish 
lust. 
With my Maker, face to face ? 

What shall I say for my worldly pride ? 
What for the things I have done and 

not done ? 
There will be no cloud then over the 
sun, 
And no grave wherein to hide. 

Xo time for waiting, no time for 
prayer, — 
Xo lriend that with me my life-path 

trod 
To help me, — only my soul and my 
God, 
And all my sins laid bare. 



Xo dear human pity, no low loving 
speech. 
About me that terrible day shall there 

be. 
Remitted back into myself, I shall see 
All sweetest things out of reach. 

But why should I tremble before th' 
unknown, 
And put oft" the blushing and shame ? 

Now, — to-day ! 
The friend close beside me seems 
far, far away, 
And I stand at God's judgment alone ! 



A PRAYER. 

I have been little used to frame 

Wishes to speech and call it prayer ; 

To-day, my Father, in thy name, 
I ask to have my soul stript bare 

Of all its vain pretense, — to see 

Myself, as I am seen by thee. 

I want to know how much the pain 

And passion here, its powers abate ; 
To take its thoughts, a tangled skein, 
And stretch them out all smooth and 
straight ; 
To track its wavering course through 

sin 
And sorrow, to its origin. 

I want to know if in the night 
Of evil, grace doth so abound, 

That from its darkness we draw light, 
As flowers do beauty from the 
ground ; 

Or, if the sins of time shall be 

The shadows of eternity. 

I want, though only for an hour, 
To be myself, — to get more near 

The wondrous mystery and power 
Of love, whose echoes floating here, 

Between us and the waiting grave, 

Make all of light, of heaven, we have. 



COUNSEL. 

Though sin hath marked thy brother's 
brow 

Love him in sin's despite, 
But for his darkness, haply thou 

Hadst never known the light. 



240 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Be thou an angel to his life, 

And not a demon grim, — 
Since with himself he is at strife, 

Oh be at peace with him. 

Speak gently of his evil ways 

And all his pleas allow, 
For since he knows not why he strays 

From virtue, how shouldst thou ? 

Love him, though all thy love he slights, 

For ah, thou canst not say 
But that his prayerless days and nights 

Have taught thee how to pray. 

Outside themselves all things have 
laws, 

The atom and the sun, — 
Thou art thyself, perhaps, the cause 

Of sins which he has done. 

If guiltless thou, why surely then • 
Thy place is by his side, — 

It was for sinners, not just men, 
That Christ the Saviour died. 



SUPPLICATION. 

Dear gracious Lord, if that thy pain 
Doth make me well, if I have strayed 
Past mercy, let my hands be laid 

One in the other ; not in vain 
Would I be dressed, Lord, in the 

beauteous clay 
Which thou did'st put away. 

But if thou yet canst find in me 

A vine, though trailing on the 

ground, 
That might be straightened up, and 
bound 
To any good, so let it be ; 

And, haply at the last, some tendril- 
ring 
Unto thy hand shall cling. 

I have been too much used, I know, 

To tell my needs in fretful words. 

The clamoring of the silly birds, 
Impatient for their wings to grow, 

Has thy forgiveness ; O my blessed 
Lord, 

The like to me accord. 

Of grace, as much as will complete 
Thy will in me, I pray thee for ; 



Even as a rose shut in a drawer, 
That maketh all about it sweet, 

I would 'be, rather than the cedar, 

fine, 
Help me, thou Power divine. 

Fill thou my heart with love as full 

As any lily with the rain ; 

Unteach me ever to complain, 
And make my scarlet sins as wool ; 

Yea, wash me, even with sorrows, 
clean and fair, 

As lightnings do the air? 



PUTTING OFF THE ARMOR. 

Why weep ye for the falling 

Of the transient twilight gloom ? 

I am weary of the journey, 
And have come in sight of home. 

I can see a white procession 

Sweep melodiously along, 
And I would not have your mourning 

Drown the sweetness of their song. 

The battle-strife is ended ; 

I have scaled the hindering wall, 
And am putting off the armor 

Of the soldier — that is all ! 

Would you hide me from my pleas- 
ures ? 

Would you hold me from my rest ? 
From my serving and my waiting 

I am called to be a guest ! 

Of its heavy, hurtful burdens 
Now my spirit is released : 

I am done with fasts and scourges, 
And am bidden to the feast. 

While you see the sun descending, 
While you lose me in the night, 

Lo, the heavenly morn is breaking, 
And my soul is in the light. 

I from faith to sight am rising 
While in deeps of doubt you sink ; 

'T is the glory that divides us, ' 
Not the darkness, as you think. 

Then lift up your drooping eyelids, 
And take heart of better cheer ; 

'T is the cloud of coming spirits 
Makes the shadows that ye fear. 



KEL/G/ors POEMS AXP HYMNS. 



241 



Oh, they come to bear me Upward 

To the mansion of the sky. 
And to change as I am changing 

Is to live, and not to die : 

Is to leave the pain, the sickness, 

And the smiting of the rod, 
And to dwell among the angels. 

In the Citv df our God. 



I^)RGIVi:\i SS. 

» 
O thou who dost the sinner meet, 

Fearing his garment's hem. 
Think of the Master, and repeat, 

•• Neither do I condemn ! " 
And while the eager rabble stay. 

Their storms of wrath to pour, 
Think of the Master still, and say, 

" Go thou, and sin no more ! " 



THE GOLDEN MEAN. 

Lest to evil ways I run 

When I go abroad, 
Shine about me. like the sun, 

O my gracious Lord ! 
Make the clouds, with silver glow- 
ing, 
Like a mist of lilies blowing 

O'er the summer sward : 
And mine eyes keep thou from be- 
ing 
Ever satisfied with seeing, 

O my light, my Lord ! 

Lest my thoughts on discontent 

Should in sleep be fed, 
Make the darkness like a tent 

Round about my bed : 
Sweet as honey to the taster, 
Make my dreams be, O my Master, 
Sweet as honey, ere it loses 

Spice of meadow-blooms, 
While the taster tastes the roses 

In the golden combs. 

Lest I live in lowly ease, 

Or in loftly scorn, 
Make me like the strawberries 

That run among the corn ; >• 
Grateful in the shadows keeping, 
Of the broad leaves o'er me sweep- 
ing : 

16 



In the gold crop's stead, to render 
Some small berries, red and tender. 
Like the blushing morn. 

Lest that pain to pain be placed — 

Weary day to day. 
Let me sit at good men's feasts 

When the house is gay : 
Let my heart beat up to measures 
Of all comfortable pleasures. 

Till the morning gray, 
O'er the eastern hill-tops glancing. 
Sets the woodlands all to dancing. 

And scares night away. 

Lest that I in vain pretense 

Careless live and move, 
Heart and mind, and soul and sense, 

Quicken thou with love ! 
Fold its music over, under, 
Breath of flute and boom of thunder, 
Nor make satisfied my hearing 
As I go on, nearing, nearing 

Him whose name is Love. 



THE FIRE BY THE SEA. 

There were seven fishers, with nets 

in their hands, 
And they walked and talked by the 
sea-side sands ; 
Yet sweet as the sweet dew-fall 
The words they spake, though they 

spake so low. 
Across the long, dim centuries, flow. 
Ar\d we know them, one and all — 
Aye ! know them and love them all. 

Seven sad men in the days of old, 
And one was gentle, and one was bold, 
And they walked with downward 
eyes ; 
The bold was Peter, the gentle was 

John. 
And they all were sad, for the Lord was 
gone, 
And they knew not if He would 

rise — 
Knew not if the dead would rise. 

The livelong night, till the moon went 

out 
In the drowning waters, they beat 

about ; 
Beat slow through the fog their way ; 
And the sails drooped down with 

wringing wet, 



242 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And no man drew but an empty net, 
And now 't was the break of the 

day — 
The great, glad break of the day. 

" Cast in your nets on the other side ! " 
('T was Jesus speaking across the tide ; ) 
And they cast and were dragging 
hard ; 
But that disciple whom Jesus loved 
Cried straightway out, for his heart was 
moved : 
u It is our risen Lord — 
Our Master, and our Lord ! " 

Then Simon, girding his fisher's coat, 
Went over the nets and out of the 
boat — 
Aye ! first of them all was he ; 
Repenting sore the denial past, 
He feared no longer his heart to cast 
Like an anchor into the sea — 
Down deep in the hungry sea. 

And the others, through the mists so 

dim, 
In a little ship came after him, 

Dragging their net through the tide ; 
And when they had gotten close to the 

land 
They saw a fire of coals on the sand, 
And, with arms of love so wide, 
Jesus, the crucified ! 

'T is long, and long, and long ago 
Since the rosy lights began to flow 

O'er the hills of Galilee ; 
And with eager eyes and lifted hands 
The seven fishers saw on the sands 
The fire of coals by the sea — 
On the wet, wild sands by the sea. 

'T is long ago, yet faith in our souls 
Is kindled just by that fire of coals 
That streamed o'er the mists of the 
sea ; 
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat, 
Went over the nets and out of the boat, 
To answer, " Lov'st thou me ? " 
Thrice over, " Lov'st thou me ? " 



THE SURE WITNESS. 

The solemn wood had spread 
Shadows around my head ; 
" Curtains they are," I said, 



" Hung dim and still about the house 

of prayer." 
Softly among the limbs, 
Turning the leaves of hymns, 
I heard the winds, and asked if God 

were there. 
No voice replied, but while I listening 

stood, 
Sweet peace made holy hushes through 

the wood. 

With ruddy, open hand, 
I saw the wild rose stand 
Beside the green gate of the summer 
hills ; 
And pulling at her dress, 
I cried, " Sweet hermitess, 
Hast thou beheld Him who the dew 

distills ? " 
No voice replied, but while I listening 

bent, 
Her gracious beauty made my heart 
content. 

The moon in splendor shone ; 
" She walketh heaven alone, 
And seeth all things," to myself I 
mused ; 
" Hast thou beheld Him, then, 
Who hides Himself from men 
In that great power through nature in- 
terfused ? " 
No speech made answer, and no sign 

appeared, 
But in the silence I was soothed and 
cheered. 

Waking one time, strange awe 
Thrilling my soul, I saw 
A kingly splendor round about the 
night ; 
Such cunning work the hand 
Of spinner never planned, — 
The finest wool may not be washed so 

white. 
"Hast thou come out of heaven ? " I 

asked ; and lo ! 
The snow was all the answer of the 
snow. 

Then my heart said, " Give o'er ; 

Question no more, no more! 
The wind, the snow-storm, the wild 
hermit flower, 

'The illuminated air, 

The pleasure after prayer, 
Proclaim the unoriginated Power ! 



KEL/G/Ors POEMS AND I/YMXS. 



243 



The mystery that hides Him here and 
there. 

Bears the sure witness Me is every- 
where." 



A PENITENT'S PLEA. 

Likk a child that is lost 

From its home in the night, 
I grope through the darknes 

And cry tor the light ; 
Yea, all that is in me 

Cries out for the day — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

Illumine my way ! 

In the conflicts that pass 

Twixt my soul and my God, 
I walk as one walketh 

A fire-path, unshod ; 
And in my despairing 

Sit dumb by the way — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

And heal me, I pray ! 

I know the fierce flames 

Will not cease to uproll, 
Till thou rainest the clew 

Of thy love on my soul : 
And I know the dumb spirit 

Will never depart. 
Till thou comest and makest 

Thy house in my heart. 

My thoughts lie within me 

As waste as the sands ; 
Oh make them be musical 

Strings in thy hands ! 
My sins, red as scarlet, 

Wash white as a fleece — 
Come Jesus, my Master, 

And give me thy peace ! 



LOVE IS LIFE. 

Our days are few and full of strife : 
Like leaves our pleasures fade and 

fall; 
But Thou who art the all in all. 

Thy name is Love, and love is Life ! 

We walk in sleep and think we see ; 

Our little lives are clothed with 
dreams ; 

For that to us which substance seems 
Is shadow, 'twixt ourselves and thee. 



We are immortal now, and here. 

Chances and changes, night and 

day. 
Are landmarks in the eternal way ; 
Our fear is all we have to fear. 

Our lives are dew-drops in thy sun ; 
Thou breakest them, and lo ! we see 
A thousand gracious shapes of 
thee, — 

A thousand shapes, instead of one. 

The soul that drifts all darkly dim 
Through floods that seem outside of 

grace, 
Is only surging toward the place 
Which thou hast made- and meant for 
him. 

For this we hold, — ill could not be 
Were there no power beyond the 

ill: 
Our wills are held within thy will ; 

The ends of goodness rest with thee. 

Fall storms of winter as you may, 
The dry boughs in the warm spring 

rain 
Shall put their green leaves forth 
again, 
And surely we are more than they. 



Thy works, O Lord, interpret thee, 
And through them all thy love 
shown ; 

Flowing about us like a sea, 
Yet steadfast as the eternal throne. 

Out of the light that runneth through 
Thy hand, the lily's dress is spun ; 

Thine is the brightness of the dew, 
And thine the glory of the sun. 



is 



Our God is love, and that which we 
miscall 
Evil, in this good world that He has 

made, 
Is meant to be a little tender shade 

Between us and His glorv, — that is 
all ; 

And he who loves the best his fellow- 
man 

Is loving God, the holiest way he 
can. 



244 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



TIME. 



What is time, O glorious Giver, 
With its restlessness and might. 

But a lost and wandering river 
Working back into the light ? 

Every gloomy rock that troubles 
Its smooth passage, strikes to life 

Beautiful and joyous bubbles 

That are only born through strife. 

Overhung with mist-like shadows, 
Stretch its shores away, away, 

To the long, delightful meadows 
Shining with immortal May : 

Where its moaning reaches never, 
Passion, pain, or fear to move, 

And the changes bring us ever 
Sabbaths and new moons of love. 



SUPPLICATION. 



thou, who all my life hast crowned 
With better things than I could 

ask, • 

Be it to-day my humble task 
To own from depths of grief pro- 
found, 

The many sins, which darken through 

What little good I do. 

1 have been too much used, I own, 
To tell my needs in fretful words ; 
The clamoring of the silly birds, 

Impatient till their wings be grown, 
Have thy forgiveness. O my blessed 

Lord, 
The like to me accord. 

Of grace, as much as will complete 

Thy will in me, I pray thee for ; 

Even as a rose shut in a drawer 
That maketh all about it sweet, 

I would be, rather than the cedar 
fine : 

Help me, thou Power divine. 

With charity fill thou my heart, 

As summer fills the grass with dews, 
And as th' year itself renews 

In th' sun, when winter days depart, 
Blessed forever, grant thou me 
To be renewed in thee. 



WHITHER. 

All the time my soul is calling, 
" Whither, whither do I go ? " 

For my days like leaves are falling 
From my tree of life below. 

Who will come and be my lover ! 

Who is strong enough to save, 
When that I am leaning over 

The dark silence of the grave ? 

Wherefore should my soul be calling, 
" Whither, whither do I go ? " 

For my days like leaves are falling 
In the hand of God, I know. 

As the seasons touch their ending, 
As the dim years fade and flee, 

Let me rather still be sending : 
Some good deed to plead for me. 

Then, though none should stay to weep 
me, 

Lover-like, within the shade, 
He will hold me, He will keep me, 

And I will not be afraid. 



SURE ANCHOR. 

Out of the heavens come down to me, 
O Lord, and hear my earnest prayer ; 

On life above the life I see 

Fix thou my soul, and keep it there. 

The richest joys of earth are poor ; 

The fairest forms are all unfair ; 
On what is peaceable and pure 

Set thou my heart, and keep it there. 

Pride builds her house upon the sand ; 

Ambition treads the spider's stair ; 
On whatsoever things will stand 

Set thou my feet, and keep them 
there. 

The past is vanished in the past ; 

The future doth a shadow wear ; 
On whatsoever things are fast . 

Fix thou mine eyes, and keep them 
there. 

In spite of slander's tongue, in spite 
Of burdens grievous hard to bear, 

To whatsoever things are right 

Set thou my handj and keep it there. 



RELIGIOUS rOEMS A. YD IIYMXS. 



^45 



Life is .1 little troubled breath, 
Love but another name for care : 

Lord, anchor thou my hope and faith 
In things eternal, — only there. 



REMEMBER. 

In thy time, and times oi mourning, 
When grief doeth all she can 

To hide the prosperous sunshine, 
Remember this, O man, — 

" He setteth an end to darkness." 

Sad saint, of the world forgotten, 
Who workest thy work apart. 

Take thou this promise for comfort, 
And hold it in thy heart, — 

" He searcheth out all perfection." 

O foolish and faithless sailor, 
When the ship is driven away, 

When^the waves forget their places, 
And the anchor will not stay, — 

u He weigheth the waters by measure." 

O outcast, homeless, bewildered, 
Let now thy murmurs be still, 

Go in at the gates of gladness 
And eat of the feast at will, — 

u For wisdom is better than riches." 

O diligent, diligent sower, 
Who sowest thy seed in vain, 

When the corn in the ear is withered, 
And the young flax dies for rain, — 

'• Through rocks He cutteth out rivers." 



ADELIED. 

Uxpraised but of my simple rhymes, 
She pined from life and died, 

The softest of all April times 
That storm and shine divide. 

The swallow twittered within reach 

Impatient of the rain. 
And the red blossoms of the peach 

Blew down against the pane. 

When, feeling that life's wasting sands 

Were wearing into hours, 
She took her Ions: locks in her hands 

And gathered out the flowers. 

The day was nearly on the close, 
And on the eave in sight, 



The doves were gathered in white rows 
With bosoms to the light ; 

When first my sorrow flowed to rhymes 

For gentle Adelied — 
The light of thrice five April times 
Had kissed her when she died. 



SUNDAY MORNING. 

day to sweet religious thought 
So wisely set apart, 

Back to the silent strength of life 
Help thou my wavering heart. 

Nor let the obtrusive lies of sense 

My meditations draw 
From the composed, majestic realm 

Of everlasting law. 

Break down whatever hindering shapes 

I see, or seem to see, 
And make my soul acquainted with 

Celestial company. 

Beyond the wintry waste of death 
Shine fields of heavenly light ; 

Let not this incident of time 
Absorb me from their sight. 

1 know these outward forms wherein 
So much my hopes I stay, 

Are but the shadowy hints of that 
Which cannot pass away. 

That just outside the work-day path 

By man's volition trod, 
Lie the resistless issues of 

The things ordained of God. 



IN THE DARK. 

Out of the earthly years we live 
How small a profit springs ; 

I cannot think but life should give 
Higher and better things. 

The very ground whereon we tread 
Is clothed to please our sight ; 

I cannot think that we have read 
Our dusty lesson right. 

So little comfort we receive, 
Except through what we see, 



246 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



I cannot think we half believe 
Our immortality. 

We disallow and trample so 
The rights of poor weak men, 

I cannot think we feel and know 
They are our brethren. 

So rarely our affections move 

Without a selfish guard, 
I cannot think we know that love 

Is all of love's reward. 

To him who smites, the cheek is turned 

With such a slow consent, 
I cannot think that we have learned 

The holy Testament. 

Blind, ignorant, we grope along 

A path misunderstood, 
Mingling with folly and with wrong 

Some providential good. 

Striving with vain and idle strife 

In outward shows to live, 
We famish, knowing not that life 

Has better things to give. 



PARTING SONG. 

The long day is closing, 
Ah, why should you weep ? 

'T is thus that God gives 
His beloved ones sleep. 

I see the wide water 

So deep and so black, — 
Love waits me beyond it, — 

I would not go back ! 

I would not go back 

Where its joys scarce may gleam, 
Where even in dreaming 

We know that we dream ; 

For though life filled for me 

All measures of bliss, 
Has it anything better 

Or sweeter than this ? 

I would not go back 

To the torment of fear, — 

To the wastes of uncomfort 
When home is so near. 

Each night is a prison-bar 
Broken and gone, — 



Each morning a golden gate, 
On, — farther on ! 

On, on toward the city 

So shining and fair ; 
And He that hath loved me — 

Died for me — is there. 



THE HEAVEN THAT'S HERE. 

My God, I feel thy wondrous might 
In Nature's various shows, — 

The whirlwind's breath, — the tender 
light 
Of the rejoicing rose. 

For doth not that same power enfold 

Whatever things are new, 
Which shone about the saints of old 

And struck the seas in two ? 

Ashamed, I veil my fearful eyes 
• From this, thy earthly reign ; 

What shall I do when I arise 
From death, but die again ! 

What shall I do but prostrate fall 

Before the splendor there, 
That here, so dazzles me through all 

The dusty robes I wear. 

Life's outward and material laws, — 
Love, sunshine, all things bright, — 

Are curtains which thy mercy draws 
To shield us from that light. 

I falter when I try to seek 

The world which these conceal ; 

I stammer when I fain would speak 
The reverence that I feel. 

I dare not pray to thee to give 
That heaven which shall appear ; 

My cry is, Help me, thou, to live 
Within the heaven that's here. 



Among the pitfalls in our way 
The best of us walk blindly ; 

O man, be wary ! watch and pray, 
And judge your brother kindly. 

Help back his feet, if they have slid, 
Nor count him still your debtor ; 

Perhaps the very wrong he did 
Has made Yourself the better. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS 
THE STREAM OF LIFE. 



247 



The stream of life is going dry ; 

Thank Cod. that more and more 
I see the golden sands, which I 
Could never see before. 



The 



dark with graves of 



banks are 

friends : 
Thank God. for faith sublime 
In the eternity that sends 
Its shadows into time. 

The flowers are gone that with' their 
glow 
Of sunshine filled the grass ; 
Thank God. they were" but dim and 
low- 
Reflections in a glass. 

The autumn winds are blowing chill ; 

The summer warmth is done ; 
Thank God. the little dew-drop still 

Is drawn into the sun. 

Strange stream, to be exhaled so fast 

In cloudy cares and tears : 
Thank God, that it should shine at 
last 

Along the immortal years. 



DEAD AXD ALIVE. 

Till I learned to love thy name, 

Lord, thy grace denying, 
I was lost in sin and shame, 

Dying, dying, dying ! 

Nothing could the world impart ; 

Darkness held no morrow ; 
In my soul and in my heart 

Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow ! 

All the blossoms came to blight ; 

Noon was dull and dreary ; 
Night and day, and day and night, 

Weary, weary, weary ! 

When I learned to love thy name, 

Peace beyond all measure 
Came, and in the stead of shame, 

Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure ! 

Winds may beat, and storms may fall, 
Thou, the meek and lowly, 



Reiunest, and I sing through all. — 
Holy, holy, holy ! 



Life may henceforth never be 
Like a dismal story. 

For beyond its bound I see 
Glory, glory, glory ! 



INVOCATION. 

Come down to us, help and heal us, 
Thou that once life's pathway trod, 

Knowing all its gloom and glory, — 
Son of man, and Son of God. 

Come down to us, help and heal us, 
When our hopes before us flee ; 

Thou hast been a man of sorrows, 
Tried and tempted, even as we. 

By the weakness of our nature, 
By the burdens of our care, 

Steady up our fainting courage, — 
Save, oh save us from despair ! 

By the still and strong temptation 
Of consenting hearts within ; 

By the power of outward evil, • 
Save, oh save us from our sin ! 

By the infirm and bowed together, — 
By the demons far and near, — 

By all sick and sad possessions, 
Save, oh save us from our fear ! 

From the dim and dreary doubting 
That with faith a warfare make, 

Save us, through thy sweet compas- 
sion, — 
Save us, for thy own name's sake. 

And when all of life is finished 
To the last low fainting breath, 

Meet us in the awful shadows, 
And deliver us from death. 



LIFE OF LIFE. 

To Him who is the Life of life, 
My soul its vows would pay ; 

He leads the flowery seasons on, 
And gives the storm its way. 

The winds run backward to their caves 
At his divine command, — 



248 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the great deep He folds within 
The hollow of his hand. 

He clothes the grass, He makes the 
rose 

To wear her good attire ; 
The moon He gives her patient grace, 

And all the stars their fire. 

He hears the hungry raven's cry, 
And sends her young their food, 

And through our evil intimates 
His purposes of good. 

He stretches out the north, He binds 

The tempest in his care ; 
The mountains cannot strike their 
roots 

So deep He is not there. 

Hid in the garment of his works, 

We feel his presence still 
With us, and through us fashioning 

The mystery of his will. 



MERCIES. 

Lest the great glory from on high 
Should make our senses swim, 

Our blessed Lord hath spread the sky 
Between ourselves and Him. 

He made the Sabbath shine before 
The work-days and the care, 

And set about its golden door 
The messengers of prayer. 

Across our earthly pleasures fled 
He sends his heavenly light, 

Like morning streaming broad and red 
Adown the skirts of night. 

He nearest comes when most his face 
Is wrapt in clouds of gloom ; 

The firmest pillars of his grace 
Are planted in the tomb. 

Oh shall we not the power of sin 

And vanity withstand, 
When thus our Father holds us in 

The hollow of his hand ? 



PLEASURE AND PAIN. 

Pleasure and pain walk hand in hand, 
Each is the other's poise ; 



The borders of the silent land 
Are full of troubled noise. 

While harvests yellow as the day 

In plenteous billows roll, 
Men go about in blank dismay, 

Hungry of heart and soul. 

Like chance-sown weeds they grow, 
and drift 

On to the drowning main .; 
Oh, for a lever that would lift 

Thought to a higher plane ! 

Sin is destructive : he is dead 
Whose soul is lost to truth ; 

While virtue makes the hoary head 
Bright with eternal youth. 

There is a courage that partakes 

Of cowardice ; a high 
And honest-hearted fear that makes 

The man afraid to lie. 

When no low thoughts of self intrude, 

Angels adjust our rights ; 
And love that seeks its selfish good 

Dies in its own delights. 

How much we take, — how little give, — 

Yet every life is meant 
To help all lives ; each man should live 

For all men's betterment. 



MYSTERIES. 

Clouds, with a little light between ; 

Pain, passion, fear, and doubt, — 
What voice shall tell me what they 
mean ? 

I cannot find them out ! 

Hopeless my task is, to begin, 
Who fail with all my power, 

To read the crimson lettering in 
The modest meadow flower. 

Death, with shut eyes and icy cheek, 
Bearing that bitter cup ; . 

Oh, who is wise enough to speak, 
And break its silence up ! 

Or read the evil writing on 

The wall of good, for, oh, 
The more my reason shines upon 

Its lines, the less I know : 



RELJG/OL'S rOEMS AXD IIYMXS. 



249 



Or show how dust became a rose, 

And what it is above 
All mysteries that doth compose 

Discordance into love. 

I only know that wisdom planned, 

And that it is my part 
To trust, who cannot understand 

The beating of my heart. 



LYRIC. 

Thou givest, Lord, to Nature law, 

And she in turn doth give 
Her poorest flower a right to draw 

Whatever she needs to live. 

The dews upon her forehead fall, 
The sunbeams round her lean, 

And dress her humble form with all 
The glory of a queen. 

In thickets wild, in woodland bow- 
ers. 

By waysides, everywhere, 
The' plainest flower of all the flowers 

Is shining with thy care. 



And 



through my 



fear and 



shall I, 
doubt, 

Be less than one of these, 
And come from seeking thee without 
By blessed influences ? 

Thou who hast crowned my life with 
powers 

So large. — so high above 
The fairest flower of all the flowers, — 

Forbid it by thy love. 



TRUST. 

Away with all life's memories, 

Away with hopes, away ! 
Lord, take me up into thy love, 

And keep me there to-day. 

I cannot trust to mortal eyes 
My weakness and my sin : 

Temptations He alone can judge, 
Who knows what they have been. 

But I can trust Him who provides 
The thirsty ground with dew, 



And round the wounded beetle builds 
His grassy house anew. 

For the same hand that smites with 
pain. 

And sends the wintry snows. 
Doth mould the frozen clod again 

Into the summer rose. 

My soul is melted by that love, 

So tender and so true ; 
I can but cry, My Lord and God, 

What wilt thou have me do ? 

My blessings all come back to me, 
And round about me stand ; 

Help me to climb their dizzy stairs 
Until I touch thy hand. 



ALL IN ALL. 

Aweary, wounded unto death, — 

Unfavored of men's eyes, 
I have a house not made with hands, 

Eternal, in the skies. 

A house where but the steps of faith 
Through the white light have trod, 

Steadfast among the mansions of 
The City of our God. 

There never shall the sun £0 down 

From the lamenting day ; 
There storms shall never rise to beat 

The light of love away. 

There living streams through deathless 

flowers 
Are flowing free and wide ; 
There souls that thirsted here below 
Drink, and are satisfied. 

I know my longing shall be filled 
When this weak, wasting clay 

Is folded like a garment from 
My soul, and laid away. 

I know it by th' immortal hopes 
That wrestle down my fear, — 

By all the awful mysteries 

That hide heaven from us here. 

Oh what a blissful heritage 

On such as I to fall ; 
Possessed of thee, my Lord and God, 

I am possessed of all. 



250 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



THE PURE IN HEART. 

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see 
God." 

I asked the angels in my prayer, 
With bitter tears and pains, 

To show mine eyes the kingdom where 
The Lord of glory reigns. 

I said, My way with doubt is dim, 
My heart is sick with fear ; 

Oh come, and help me build to Him 
A tabernacle here ! 

The storms of sorrow wildly beat, 
The clouds with death are chill ; 

I long to hear his voice so sweet, 
Who whispered, " Peace ; be still ! " 

The angels said, God giveth you 
His love, — what more is ours ? 

And even as the gentle dew 
Descends upon the flowers, 

His grace descends ; and, as of old, 

He walks with man apart, 
Keeping the promise as foretold, 

With all the pure in heart. 

Thou needst not ask the angels where 

His habitations be ; 
Keep thou thy spirit clean and fair, 

And He shall dwell with thee. 



UNSATISFIED. 

Come out from heaven, O Lord, and be 
my guide, 
Come, I implore ; 

To my dark questionings unsatisfied, 
Leave me no more, — 
No more, O Lord, no more ! 

Forgetting how my nights and how my 
days 
Run sweetly by, — 
Forgetting that thy ways above our 
ways 
Are all so high, — 
I cry, and ever cry — 

Since that thou leavest not the wildest 
glen, 
For flowers to wait, 



How leavest thou the hearts of living 
men 
So desolate, — 
So darkly desolate ? 

Thou keepest safe beneath the wintry 
snow 
The little seed, 
And leavest under all its weights of 
woe, 
The heart to bleed, 
And vainly, vainly plead. 

In the dry root thou stirrest up the 
sap; 
At thy commands 
Cometh the rain, and all the bushes 
clap 
Their rosy hands : 
Man only, thirsting, stands. 

Is it for envy, or from wrath that 
springs 
From foolish pride, 
Thou leavest him to his dark question- 
ings 
Unsatisfied, — 
Always unsatisfied ? 



. MORE LIFE. 

When spring-time prospers in the 
grass, 

And fills the vales with tender bloom, 
And light winds whisper as they pass 

Of sunnier days to come ; 

In spite of all the joy she brings 

To flood and field, to hill and grove, 
This is the song my spirit sings, — 
More light, more life, more love ! 

And when, her time fulfilled, she goes 
So gently from her vernal place, 

And all the outstretched landscape 
glows 
With sober summer grace ; 

When on the stalk the ear is set,. 

With all the harvest promise bright, 
My spirit sings the old song yet, — 

More love, more life, more light ! 

When stubble takes the place of grain, 
And shrunken streams steal slow 
along, 



AELIGIOCS rOEMS AND HYMNS. 



251 



And all the faded woods complain 
Like one who suffers wrong ; 

When fires are lit. and everywhere 
The pleasures of the household rife, 

Mv song is solemnized to prayer. — 
More'love, more light, more life ! 



LIGHT AND DARKNESS 

Darkness, blind darkness every way, 
With low illuminings of light : 

Hints, intimations of the day 

That never breaks to full, clear light. 

High longing for a larger light 
Urges us onward o'er life's hill ; 

Low fear of darkness and of night 
Presses us back and holds us still. 

So while to Hope we give one hand, 
The other hand to Fear we lend : 

And thus 'twixt high and low we stand, 
Waiting and wavering to the end. 

Eager for some ungotten good. 

We mind the false and miss the true ; 
Leaving undone the things we would, 

We do the things we would not do. 

For ill in good and good in ill. 

The verity, the thing that seems, — 
They run into each other still, 

Like dreams in truth, like truth in 
dreams. 

Seeing the world with sin imbued. 

We trust that in the eternal plan 

Some little drop of brightest blood 



Runs 



through 



the darkest heart of 



man. 



Living afar from what is near, 

L'plooking while we downward tend ; 

In light and shadow, hope and fear, 
We sin and suffer to the end. 



SUBSTANCE. 

Each fearful storm that o'er us rolls, 

Each path of peril trod. 
Is but a means whereby our souls 

Acquaint themselves with God. 



Our want and weakness, shame and sin. 
His pitying kindness prove ; 

And all our lives are folded in 
The mystery of his love. 

The grassy land, the flowering trees, 
The waters, wild and dim, — 

These are the cloud of witnesses 
That testify of Him. 

His sun is shining, sure and fast, 
O'er all our nights of dread : 

Our darkness by his light, at last 
Shall be interpreted. 

No promise shall He fail to keep 

Until we see his face : 
E'en death is but a tender sleep 

In the eternal race. 

Time's empty shadow cheats our eyes, 
But all the heavens declare 

The substance of the things we prize 
Is there and only there. 



LIFE'S MYSTERY. 

Life's sadly solemn mystery 
Hangs o'er me like a weight : 

The glorious longing to be free, 
The gloomy bars of fate. 

Alternately the good and ill, 
The light and dark, are strung ; 

Fountains of love within my heart, 
And hate upon my tongue. 

Beneath my feet the unstable ground, 
Above my head the skies ; 

Immortal longings in my soul. 
And death before my eyes. 

No purely pure, and perfect good, 
No high, unhindered power ; 

A beauteous promise in the bud, 
And mildew on the flower. 



The 



brightness 



glad, green 
spring ; 

The summer, soft and warm ; 
The faded autumn's fluttering gold, 
The whirlwind and the storm. 

To find some sure interpreter 

My spirit vainly tries ; 
I only know that God is love, 

And know that love is wise. 



of the 



252 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



FOR SELF-HELP. 

Master, I do not ask that thou 

With milk and wine my table spread, 

So much, as for the will to plough 
And sow my fields, and earn my 
bread ; 

Lest at thy coming I be found 

A useless cumberer of the ground. 

I do not ask that thou wilt bless 
With gifts of heavenly sort my day, 

So much, as that my hands may dress 
The borders of my lowly way 

With constant deeds of good and right, 

Thereby reflecting heavenly light. 

I do not ask that thou shouldst lift 
My feet to mountain-heights sub- 
lime, 
So much, as for the heavenly gift 
Of strength, with which myself may 
climb, 
Making the power thou madest mine 
For using, by that use, divine. 

I do not ask that there may flow 
Glory about me from the skies ; 

The knowledge, that doth knowledge 
know ; 
The wisdom that is not too wise 

To see in all things good and fair, 

Thy love attested, is my prayer. 



DYING HYMN. 

Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes, and fades away ; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song ; 

My blindness is my sight ; 
The shadows that I feared so long 

Are all alive with light. 

The while my pulses faintly beat, 

My faith doth so abound, 
I feel grow firm beneath my feet 

The green immortal ground. 

That faith to me a courage gives, 

Low as the grave, to go ; 
I know that my Redeemer lives : 

That I shall live, I know. 



The palace walls I almost see, 

Where dwells my Lord and King ; 

O grave, where is thy victory ! 
O death, where is thy sting ! 



EXTREMITIES. 

When the mildew's blight we see 
Over all the harvest spread, 

Humbly, Lord, we cry to thee, 
Give, oh give us, daily bread ! 

But the full and plenteous ears 

Many a time we reap with tears. 

When the whirlwind rocks the land, 
When the gathering clouds alarm, 

Lord, within thy sheltering hand, 
Hide, oh hide us from the storm ! 

So with trembling souls we cry, 

Till the cloud and noise pass by. 

When our pleasures fade away, 
When our hopes delusive prove, 

Prostrate at thy feet we pray, 

Shield, oh shield us with thy love ! 

But, our anxious plea allowed, 

We grow petulant and proud. 

When life's little day turns dull, 

When the avenging shades be- 
gin. 

Save us, O most Merciful, 

Save us, save us from our sin ! 

So, the last dread foe being near, 

We entreat thee, through our fear. 

Ere the dark our light efface, 

Ere our pleasure fleeth far, 
Make us worthier of thy grace, 

Stubborn rebels that we are ; 
While our good days round us shine. 
O our Father, make us thine. 



HERE AND THERE. 

Here is the sorrow, the sighing, 
Here are the cloud and the night ; 

Here is the sickness, the dying, 
There are the life and the light ! 

Here is the fading, the wasting, 
The foe that so watchfully waits ; 

There are the hills everlasting, 
The city with beautiful gates. 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AXD HYMNS. 253 


Here are the locks growing hoary. 




Tl with the vanishing sands ; 


OCCASIONAL 


There are the crown and the glory, 




The house that is made not with 


Ol/R mightiest in our midst is slain ; 


hands. 


The mourners weep around. 




Broken and bowed with bitter pain. 


Here is the longing, the vision. 


And bleeding through his wound. 


The hopes that so swiftly remove ; 




There is the blessed fruition. 


Prostrate, o'erwhelmed, with anguish 


The feast, and the fullness of love. 


torn, 




We cry. great God, for aid ; 


Here are the heart-strings a-tremble 


Night fell upon us, even at morn, 


And here is the chastening- rod ; 


And we are sore afraid. 


There is the song and the cymbal. 




And there is our Father and God. 


Afraid of our infirmities, 




In this, our woeful woe, — 




Afraid to breast the bloody seas 




That hard against us flow. 


THE DAWN OF PEACE. 






The sword we sheathed, our enemy 


After the cloud and the whirlwind, 


Has bared, and struck us through : 


After the long, dark night. 


And heart, and soul, and spirit cry, 


After the dull, slow marches, 


What wilt thou have us do ! 


And the thick, tumultuous fight, 




Thank God, we see the lifting 


Be with our country in this grief 


Of the golden, glorious light ! 


That lies across her path, 




Lest that she mourn her martyred 


After the sorrowful partings. 


chief 


After the sickening fear. 


With an unrighteous wrath. 


And after the bitter sealing 




With blood, of year to year. 


Give her that steadfast faith and trust 


Thank God, the light is breaking ; 


That look through all, to Thee ; 


Thank God, the day is here ! 


And in her mercy keep her just, 




And through her justice, free. 


The land is filled with mourning 
For husbands and brothers slain, 






But a hymn of glad thanksgiving 


Why should our spirits be opprest 


Rises over the pain ; 


When days of darkness fall ? 


Thank God, our gallant soldiers 


Our Father knoweth what is best, 


Have not gone down in vain ! 


And He hath made them all. 


The cloud is spent : the whirlwind 


He made them, and to all their length 


That vexed the night is past ; 


Set parallels of gain ; 


And the day whose blessed dawn- 


We gather from our pain the strength 


ing 


To rise above our pain. 


We see, shall surely last. 




Till all the broken fetters 


All, all beneath the shining sun 


To ploughshares shall be cast ! 


Is vanity and dust : 




Help us, 6 high and holy One, 


When over the field of battle 


To fix in thee our trust : 


The grass grows green, and when 




The Spirit of Peace shall have planted 


And in the change, and interfuse 


Her olives once again, 


Of change, with every hour, 


Oh, how the hosts of the people 


To recognize the shifting hues 


Shall cry, Amen, Amen ! 


Of never-changing Power. 




POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



THE LITTLE BLACKSMITH. 

We heard his hammer all day long 

On the anvil ring and ring, 
But ' he always came when the sun 
went down 

To sit on the gate and sing. 

His little hands so hard and brown 

Crossed idly on his knee, 
And straw hat lopping over cheeks 

As red as they could be ; 

His blue and faded jacket trimmed 
With signs of work, — his feet 

All bare and fair upon the grass, 
He made a picture sweet. 

For still his shoes, with iron shod, 
On the smithy- wall he hung ; 

As forth he came when the sun went 
down, 
And sat on the gate and sung. 

The whistling rustic tending cows, 
Would keep in pastures near, 

And half the busy villagers 
Lean from their doors to hear. 

And from the time the bluebirds 
came 

And made the hedges bright, 
Until the stubble yellow grew, 

He never missed a night. 

The hammer's stroke on the anvil 
filled 
His heart with a happy ring, 
And that was why, when the sun went 
down, 
He came to the gate to sing. 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Blessings, blessings on the beds 
Whose white pillows softly bear, 

Rows of little shining heads 
That have never known a care. 

Pity for the heart that bleeds 
In the homestead desolate 

Where no little troubling needs 
Make the weary working wait. 

Safely, safely to the fold 

Bring them wheresoe'er they be, 
Thou, who saidstof them, of old, 

" Suffer them to come to me." 



A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

TO BE READ BY ALL WHO DEAL HARDLY 
WITH YOUNG CHILDREN. 

PART I. 

Up, Gregory ! the cloudy east 

Is bright with the break o' the day ; 

'T is time to yoke our cattle, and time 
To eat our crust and away. 

Up, out o' your bed ! for the rosy red 
Will soon be growing gray. 

Aye, straight to your feet, my lazy lad, 
And button your jacket on — 

Already neighbor Joe is afield, 
And so is our neighbor John ; — 

The golden light is turned to white, 
And 't is time that we were gone ! 

Nay, leave your shoes hung high and 
dry — 
Do you fear a little sleet ? 



ROE MS FOR CHILD REX 



255 



Your mother today is not by half 

dainty with her feet, 
Anil I "11 warrant you she had n't a shoe 
At your age upon her feet ! 

What ! shiv'ring on an April day ? 

Why this is pretty new 
The frosts before an hour will all 

Be melted into dews. 
And Christmas week will (\o, I think, 

To talk about your shoes ! 

Waiting to brew another cup 

Of porridge ? sure you Ye mad — 

One cup at your age. Gregory, 
And precious small, I had. 

We cannot bake the Christmas cake 
At such a rate, my lad ! 

Out. out at once ! and on with the yoke, 
Your feet will never freeze ! 

The sun before we have done a stroke 
Will be in the tops o' the trees. 

A- Christmas Day you may eat and play 
As much as ever you please ! 

So out of the house, and into the sleet, 

With his jacket open wide, 
Went pale and patient Gregory — 

All present joy denied — 
And yoked his team like one in a dream, 

Hungry and sleepy-eyed. 



PART 11. 

It seemed to our little harvester 
He could hear the shadows creep ; 

For the scythe lay idle in the grass, 
And the reaper had ceased to reap. 

'T was the burning noon of the leafy 
June, 
And the birds were all asleep. 

And he seemed to rather see than hear 
The wind through the long leaves 
draw, 
As he sat and notched the stops along 

His pipe of hollow straw. 
On Christmas Day he had planned to 

play 
His tune without a flaw. 

Upon his sleeve the spider's web 
Hung loose like points of lace, 

And he looked like a picture painted 
there, 
He was so full of grace. 



For his cheeks they shone as if there 
had blown 
Fresh roses in his face. 

Ah, never on his lady's arm 

A lover's hand was laid 
With touches soft as his upon 

The flute that he had made, 
As he bent his ear and watched to hear 

The sweet, low tune he played. 

But all at once from out his cheek 
The light o' the roses fled — 

He had heard a coming step that 
crushed 
The daisies 'neath its tread. 

O happiness ! thou art held by less 
Than the spider's tiniest thread ! 

A moment, and the old harsh call 
Had broken his silver tune, 

And with his sickle all as bright 
And bent as the early moon, 

He cut his way through the thick set hay 
In the burning heat o' the June. 

As one who by a river stands, 

Weary and worn and sad, 
And sees the flowers the other side — 

So was it with the lad. 
There was Christmas light in his dream 
at night, 

But a dream was all he had. 

Work, work in the light o' th' rosy 
morns, 
Work, work in the dusky eves ; 
For now they must plough, and now 
they must plant, 
And now they must bind the sheaves. 
And far away was the holiday 
All under the Christmas leaves. 

For still it brought the same old cry, 

If he would rest or play, 
Some other week, or month, or year, 

But not now — not to-day ! 
Nor feast, nor flower, for th' passing 
hour, 

But all for the far away. 



PART III. 

Now Christmas came, and Gregory 
With the dawn was broad awake ; 

But there was the crumple cow to milk, 
And there was the cheese to make ; 



256 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And so it was noon ere he went to the 
town 
To buy the Christmas cake. 

" You '11 leave your warm, new coat at 
home, 
And keep it fresh and bright 
To wear," the careful old man said, 
" When you come back to-night." 
" Aye," answered the lad, for his heart 

was glad, 
And he whistled out o' their sight. 

The frugal couple sat by the fire 

And talked the hours away, 
Turning over the years like leaves 
To the friends of their wedding- 
day — 
Saying who was wed, and who was 
dead, 
And who was growing gray. 

And so at last the day went by, 
As, somehow, all days will ; 

And when the evening winds began 
To blow up wild and shrill, 

They looked to see if their Gregory 
Were coming across the hill. 

They saw Jhe snow-cloud on the sky, 
With its rough and ragged edge, 

And thought of the river running high, 
And thought of the broken bridge ; 

But they did not see their Gregory 
Keeping his morning's pledge ! 

The old wife rose, her fear to hide, 

And set the house aright, 
But oft she paused at the window 
side, 

And looked out on the night. 
The candles fine, they were all a-shine, 

But they could not make it light. 

The very clock ticked mournfully, 
And the cricket was not glad, 

And to the old folks sitting alone, 
The time was, oh ! so sad ; 

For the Christmas light, it lacked that 
night 
The cheeks of their little lad. 

The winds and the woods fall wrestling 
now, 
And they cry, as the storm draws 
near, 
" If Gregory were but home alive, 
He should not work all this year ! " 



waiting through 



For they saw him dead in the river's 
bed, 
Through the surges of their fear. 

Of ghosts that walk o' nights they tell — 
A sorry Christmas theme — 

And of signs and tokens in the air, 
And of many a warning dream, 

Till the bough at the pane through th' 
sleet and rain 
Drags like a corpse in a stream. 

There was the warm, new coat unworn, 
And the flute of straw unplayed ; 

And these were dreadfuller than ghosts 
To make their souls afraid, 

As the years that were gone came one 
by one, 
And their slights before them laid. 

The Easter days and the Christmas 
days 
Bereft of their sweet employ. 
And working and 
them all 
Their little pale-eyed boy, 
Looking away to the holiday 

That should bring the promised joy. 

" God's mercy on us ! " cried they 
both, 
" We have been so blind and deaf ; 
And justly are our gray heads bowed 

To the very grave with grief." 
But hark ! is 't the rain that taps at the 
pane, 
Or the fluttering, falling leaf ? 

Nay, fluttering leaf, nor snow, nor rain, 

However hard they strive, 
Can make a sound so sweet and soft, 

Like a bee's wing in the hive. 
Joy ! joy ! oh joy ! it is their boy ! 

Safe, home, in their arms alive ! 

Ah, never was there pair so rich 

As they that night, I trow, 
And never a lad in all the world 

With a merrier pipe to blow, 
Nor Christmas light that ..shone so 
bright 

At midnight on the snow. 



NOVEMBER. 

The leaves are fading and falling, 
The winds are rough and wild, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



257 



The birds have ceased their calling, 
But let me tell you, my child. 

Though day by day, as it closes, 
Doth darker and colder grow, 

The roots of the bright red roses 
Will keep alive in the snow. 

And when the winter is over. 
The boughs will get new leaves, 

The quail come back to the clover, 
And the swallow back to the eaves. 

The robin will wear on his bosom 
A vest that is bright and new. 

And the lovliest way-side blossom 
Will shine with the sun and dew. 

The leaves to-day are whirling, 
The brooks are all dry and dumb, 

But let me tell you, my darling. 
The spring will be sure to come. 

There must be rough, cold weather, 
And winds and rains so wild : 

Not all good things together 
Come to us here, my child. 

So, when some dear joy loses 
Its beauteous summer glow, 

Think how the roots of the roses 
Are kept alive in the snow. 



MAKE-BELIEVE. 

All upon a summer day, 

Seven children, girls and boys, 

Raking in the meadow hay, 

Waked the echoes with their noise. 

You must know them by their names - 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Benjamin and Susan James, 

Joe and John M 'Clary. 

Then a child, so very small, 
She was only come for play — 
Little Miss 'Matilda May,' 

And you have them one and all. 

'T was a pretty sight to see — 
Seven girls and boys together 

Raking in the summer weather, 
Merry as they well could be ! 

But one lad that we must own 
Many a lad has represented, 



Doing well, was not contented 
To let well enough alone ! 

This was Master Benny James, 
Brother, you will see, to Sue, 

If you glance along the names 
As I set them down for you. 

Out he spoke — this Benjamin — 
Standing with his lazy back- 
Close against a fragrant stack. 

Out and up he spoke, and then 
Called with much ado and noise 
All the seven girls and boys 

From their raking in the hay — 
Fanny Field and Mary. 

Sister Sue and Tilly May, 
Joe and John M' Clary. 

Two by two, and one by one 

Turned upon their work their 
backs, 

And with skip, and hop, and run 
In and out among the stacks, 

Came with faces flushed and red 
As the flowers along the glen, 
And began to question Ben, 

Who made answer back, and said — 
Speaking out so very loud — 
Holding up his head so proud, 
As he leaned his lazy back 
Close against the fragrant stack : 

" Listen will you, girls and boys ! 
This is what I have to say — 
I 've invented a new play ! " 
Then they cried with merry noise — 

" Tell us all about it, Ben ! " 
And he answered — " First of all, 
All we boys, or large or small, 

Must pretend that we are men ! 

" And you girls, Fan, Sue, and Molly, 
Must pretend that you 're birds, 
And must chirp and sing your 
words — 

Never was there play so jolly ! 

" I 'm to be called Captain Gray, 
And, of course, the rest of you 

All must do as I shall say." 
Here he called his sister Sue, 
Telling her she must be blue, 

And must answer to her name 

When the call of Bluebird came. 

Fanny Field must be a Jay, 

And the rest — no matter what — 



258 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



Anything that they were not ! 
Mary might be Tilly May, 
And Matilda, as for her, 
She might be a Grasshopper ! 

All cried out, " Oh, what a play ! " 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Susy James and Tilly May, 

Joe and John M' Clary. 



Here Ben said he was not Ben 
Any more, but Captain Gray ! 

And gave order first — " My men, 
Forward ! march ! and rake the 
hay!" 



Then he told his sister Sue 
She must go and do the same, 

But, forgetting she was blue, 
Called her by her proper name. 

Loud enough laughed Susan then, 
And declared she would not say 
Any longer Captain Gray, 

But would only call him Ben ! 

This was such a dreadful falling 
Ben got angry, and alas, 

Made the matter worse, by calling 
Little TiHy, Hoppergrass ! 

Fanny Field, he did make out 
To call Jay-bird, once or twice, 

And, in turn, she flew about, 
Chirping very wild and nice. 

Once she tried to make a wing, 
Holding wide her linsey gown, 
And went flapping up and down, 

Laughing so she could n't sing. 

But the captain to obey 
When he called her Tilly May, 

Was too hard for Mary, 
And Matilda — praise to her — 
Could not play the grasshopper, 
But in honesty of heart, 
Quite forgetful of her part, 

Spoke to John M' Clary ! 

Thus the hay-making went on, 
Very bad and very slow — 

All the worse that Joe and John 
Now were Mister John and Joe ! 

Work is work, and play is play, 
And the two will not be one ; 



Therefore half the meadow-hay . 
Lay unraked at set of sun. 

Then the farmer who had hired 
All the seven girls and boys, 

Being out of heart, and tired 

With no work and much of noise, 

Came upon them all at once, 
And made havoc of their play. 

Calling Benjamin a dunce, 
In the stead of Captain Gray ! 

So to make excuse, in part, 
For the unraked field of hay, 

Tilly — bless her honest heart ! 
Up and told about the play. 

How that Benny, discontented 
With the work of raking hay, 

Of his own head had invented 
Such a pretty, pretty play ! 

" Benny calls it Make-believe ! " 
Tilly said, with cheeks aglow, 

" Not at all, sir, to deceive, 

But to make things fine, you know? " 

Then she said, that he might see 
Just how charming it must be, 
" Fanny Field, sir, is a jay, 

And her sister Mary, 
Is myself, Matilda May, 

Joe and John M'Clary, 
Mister Joe and Mister John — 
Sue a bluebird and so on 
Up to lofty Captain Gray. 
Oh it is the funniest play ! 
Would n't you like to play it, sir ? 
I was just a grasshopper, 
But I couldn't play my part ! 

Hopping, I was sure to fall — 
Somehow, 't was not in my heart, 

But 't was very nice, for all ! " 

Looking in the farmer's eyes, 
All a-tiptoe stood the child ; 

Half in kindliness he smiled, 
Half in pitiful surprise. 

Then he said, " My little friends," 
Calling one by one their namesj 

Fanny Field and Mary, 
Benjamin and Susan James, 

Joe and John M'Clary, 
And Matilda — " Life's great ends 

Are not gained by make-believe. 



fOE.US FOR CHILD REX 



259 



This you all must learn at length. 
Lies are weak and truth is strong. 
And as much as you deceive, 

Just so much you lose of strength — 
Right is right, and wrong is wrong. 

•• If 'tis hay you want to make, 
Mind this, every one of you ! 

You must call a rake, a rake. 
And must use it smartly, too. 

•• Oh, be honest through and through ! 

Cherish truth until it grows. 

And through all your being shows 
Like the sunshine in the dew ! 

" I'sing power is getting power — 
He that giveth seldom lacks, 

Doing right, wrong done retrieves." 
Then the children turned their backs 

On their foolish make-believes. 

And in just a single hour 

Filled the meadow full of stacks ! 

And as home they went that night, 
Each and all had double pay 
For the raking of that hay, 

And the best pay was delight. 

And I think without a doubt, 

If they lived they all became 
Wiser women, wiser men 
For the lesson learned that day 
Simple-hearted Tilly May, 
Fanny Field and Mary. 

Susan James and Benjamin, 

Joe and John M 'Clary, 
Leaving in their lives the game 

Of the make-believing out ; 
Yes, I think so, without doubt. 



A NUT HARD TO CRACK. 

Says John to his mother, " Look here ! 

look here ! 
For my brain is on the rack — 
I have gotten a nut as smooth to the 

sight 
As the shell of an egg. and as fair and 

white, 
Except for a streak of black. 
Why that should mar it I can't make 

clear." 
And Johnny's mother replied, " My 

dear, 
Your nut will be hard to crack." 



John, calling louder, •• Look here ! look 
here ! 

I want to get on the track, 
And trace the meaning, for never a nut 
Had outside fairer than this one, but 

For this ugly streak of black ! 
I can't for my life its use make clear." 
And Johnny's mother replied, " My 
dear. 

Your nut will be hard to crack." 

Then John, indignant, " Look here ! 
look here ! 
And he gave the hammer a thwack ; 
And there was the nut quite broke in 

two, 
And all across it, and through and 
through, 
The damaging streak of black ! 
" It grew with his growth," he says, 

" that 's clear. 
But why ! " And his mother replied, 
" My clear, 
That nut will be hard to crack." 

Then John, in anger, " Look here ! 
look here ! 
You may have your wisdom back. 
The nut is cracked — broke all to 

splint, 
But it does n't give me even a hint 

Toward showing why the black 
Should spoil the else sweet meat." 

" My dear," 
Says Johnny's mother, "it 's very clear 
Your nut will be hard to crack. 

" For, John, whichever way we steer, 

There is evil on our track ; 
And whence it came, or how it fell, 
No wisest man of all can tell. 

We only know that black 
Is mixed with white, and pain with 

bliss, 
So all that I can say is this, 

Your nut will be hard to crack." 



HIDE AND SEEK. 

As I sit and watch at the window-pane 
The light in the sunset skies, 

The pictures rise in my heart and 
brain, 
As the stars do in the skies. 

Among the rest, doth rise and pass, 
With the blue smoke curling o'er, 



26o 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



The house I was born in, with the grass 
And roses round the door. 

I see the well-sweep, rough and brown, 
And I hear the creaking tell 

Of the bucket going up and down 
On the stony sides of the well. 

I see the cows, by the water-side — 
Red Lily, and Pink, and Star, — 

And the oxen with their horns so wide, 
Close locked in playful war. 

I see the field where the mowers stand 
In the clover-flowers, knee-deep ; 

And the one with his head upon his 
hand, 
In the locust-shade asleep. 

I see beneath his shady brim, 

The heavy eyelids sealed, 
And the mowers stopping to look at him, 

As they mow across the field. 

I hear the bluebird's twit-te-tweet ! 

And the robin's whistle blithe ; 
And then I see him spring to his feet, 

And take up his shining scythe. 

I see the barn with the door swung. 

out, — 
Still dark with its mildew streak, — 
And the stacks, and the bushes all 

about, 
Where we played at Hide and Seek ! 

I see and count the rafters o'er, 
'Neath which the swallow sails, 

And I see the sheaves on the thresh- 
ing-floor, 
And the threshers with the flails. 

I hear the merry shout and laugh 
Of the careless boys and girls, 

As the wind-mill drops the golden 
chaff, 
Like sunshine in their curls. 

The shadow of all the years that stand 
'Twixt me and my childhood's day, 

I strip like a glove from off my hand, 
And am there with the rest at play. 

Out there, half hid in its leafy screen, 

I can see a rose-red cheek, 
And up in the hay-mow I catch the 
sheen 

Of the darling head I seek. 



Just where that whoop was smothered 
low, 

I have seen the branches stir ; 
It is there that Margaret hides, I know, 

And away I chase for her ! 

And now with curls that toss so 
wide 

They shade his eyes like a brim, 
Runs Dick for a safer place to hide, 

And I turn and chase for him ! 

And rounding close by the jutting 
stack, 

Where it hangs in a rustling sheet, 
In spite of the body that presses back, 

I espy two tell-tale feet ! 

Nov/ all at once with a reckless shout, 
Alphonse from his covert springs, 

And whizzes by, with his elbows out, 
Like a pair of sturdy wings. 

Then Charley leaps from the cattle- 
rack, 
And spins at so wild a pace, 
The grass seems fairly swimming back 
As he shouts, ik I am home ! Base ! 
Base ! " 

While modest Mary, shy as a nun, 
Keeps close by the grape-vine wall, 

And waits, and waits, till our game is 
done, 
And never is found at all. 

But suddenly, at my crimson pane, 
The lights grow dim and die, 

And the pictures fade from heart and 
brain, 
As the stars do from the sky. 

The bundles slide from the threshing- 
floor, 

And the mill no longer whirls, 
And I find my playmates now no more 

By their shining cheeks and curls. 

I call them far, and I call them wide, 
From the prairie, and over the sea, 

" Oh why do you tarry, and where do 
you hide ? " 
But they may not answer me. 

God grant that when the sunset sky 
Of my life shall cease to glow, 

I may find them waiting me on high, 
As' I waited them below. 



rO£J/S IOR CIIILDRKX 



26l 



THREE BI 

Three little bugs in a basket. 
And hardly room for two/ 

And one was yellow, and one was black, 
And one like me, <>r you. 
The space was small, no doubt, for all ; 
But what should three bugs do ? 

Three little bugs in a basket. 

Anil hardly crumbs for two : 

And all were selfish in their hearts, 

The same as I or you : 

So the strong ones said, " We will eat 

the bread. 
And that is what we '11 do." 

Three little bugs in a basket, 
And the beds but two would hold ; 

they all three fell to quarreling — 
The white, and black, and the gold ; 
And two of the bugs got under the rugs, 
And one was out in the cold ! 

So he that was left in the basket, 
Without a crumb to chew. 
Or a thread to wrap himself withal, 
When the wind across him blew, 
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the 

bugs. 
And so the quarrel grew 1 

And so there was ivar in the basket, 

Ah, pity, 'tis, 'tis true ! 

But he that was frozen and starved at 

last, 
A strength from his weakness drew, 
And pulled the rugs from both of the 

bugs, 
And killed and ate them, too ! 

Now, when bugs live in a basket, 
Though more than it well can hold, 
It seems to me they had better agree — 
The white, and the black, and the 

gold — 
And share what comes of the beds and 

crumbs, 
And leave no bug in the cold ! 



WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO 
TURN UP. 

" And why do you throw clown your 
hoe by the way 
if that furrow were done ? " 



It was the good farmer, Bartholomew 
Grey, 

That spoke on this wise to his son. 

Now Barry, the younger, was not very 
bad. 
But he did n't take kindly to work, 
And the father had oftentimes said of 
the lad 
That the thing he did best was to 
shirk ! 

It was early in May, and a beautiful 
morn — 
The rosebuds tipt softly with red — 
The pea putting on her white bloom, 
and the corn 
Being just gotten up out of bed. 

And after the first little break of the 
clay 
Had broadened itself on the blue, 
The provident farmer, Bartholomew 
Grey, 
Had driven afield through the dew. 

His brown mare, Fair Fanny, in collar 
and harness 
Went before him, so sturdy and 
stout, 
And ere the sun's fire yet had kindled 
to flames, 
They had furrowed the field twice 
about. 

And still as they came to the southerly 
slope 
He reined in Fair Fanny, with 
Whoa ! 
And gazed toward the homestead, and 
gazed, in the hope 
Of seeing young Barty — but no ! 

" Asleep yet ? " he said — " in a minute 
the horn 
That shall call to the breakfast, will 
sound, 
And all these long rows of the tender 
young corn 
Left choking, and ploughed in the 
ground ! " 

Now this was the work, which the far- 
mer had planned 
For Barty — a task kindly meant, 
To follow the plough, with the hoe in 
his hand, 
And to set up the stalks as he went. 



262 



THE POEMS OE ALICE CARY. 



But not till the minutes to hours had 
run, 
And the heat was aglow far and wide, 
Did he see his slow-footed and sleepy- 
eyed son 
A-dragging his hoe by his side. 

Midway of the corn field he stopped, 
gaped around ; 
" What use is there working ? " says 
he, 
And saying so, threw himself flat on the 
ground 
In the shade of a wide-spreading tree. 

And this was the time that Bartholo- 
mew Grey, 
Fearing bad things might come to 
the worst, 
Drew rein on Fair Fanny, the sweat 
wiped away. 
And spoke as we quoted at first. 

He had thought to have given the lad 
such a start 
As would bring him at once to his 
feet, 
And he stood in the furrow, amazed, as 
young Bart, 
Lying lazy, and smiling so sweet, 

Replied — " The world owes me a liv- 
ing, you see, 
And something, or sooner or late, 
I 'm certain as can be, will turn up for 
me, 
And I am contented to wait ! " 

"My son," says the farmer, "take this 
to your heart, 
For to live in the world is to learn. 
The good things that turn up are for 
the most part 
The things we ourselves help to turn ! 

'• So boy, if you want to be sure of 
your bread 
Ere the good time of working is 
gone, 
Brush the cobwebs of nonsense all out 
of your head, 
And take up your hoe, and move on ! " 



SUPPOSE. 

How dreary would the meadows be 
In the pleasant summer light, 



Suppose there was n't a bird to sing. 
And suppose the grass was white ! 

And dreary would the garden be, 

With all its flowery trees, 
Suppose there were no butterflies, 

And suppose there were no bees. 

And what would all the beauty be, 
And what the song that cheers, 

Suppose we had n't any eyes, 
And suppose we had n't ears ? 

For though the grass were gay and 
green, 
And song-birds filled the glen, 
And the air were purple with butter- 
flies, 
What good would they do us then ? 

Ah, think of it. my little friends ; 

And when some pleasure flies, 
Why, let it go, and still be glad 

That you have your ears and eyes. 



A GOOD RULE. 

A farmer, who owned a fine orchard, 
one day 

Went out with his sons to take a sur- 
vey, 

The time of the year being April or 
May. 

The buds were beginning to break into 

bloom, 
The air all about him was rich with 

perfume, 
And nothing, at first, waked a feeling 

of gloom. 

But all at once, going from this place 

to that, 
He shaded his eyes with the brim of 

his hat, 
Saying, " Here is a tree dying out, that 

is flat ! " 

He called his sons, Joseph and John, 

and said he, 
"This sweeting, you know, was my 

favorite tree — 
Just look at the top now, and see what 

you see ! 

" The blossoms are blighted, and, sure 
as you live, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN 



263 



It won't have a bushel of apples to 
giv< 

What ails it ? the rest of the v: 
seem to thrive. 

u Run. boys, bring hither your tools. 

and don't stop. 
But take every branch that is falling 

alop. 
And saw it out quickly, from bottom to 

top : " 

•• Yes, father." they said, and away they 

both ran — 
For they always said /atfir, and never 

old man. 
And for my part I don't see how good 

children can. 

And before a half hour of the morning 

was gone. 
They were back in the orchard, both 

Joseph and John. 
And presently all the dead branches 

were sawn. 

u Well, boys." said the farmer. ' ; I 

think, for my share. 
If the rain and the sunshine but second 



our care, 
Id sweet 
bear ! " 



The old sweetinsr vet will be driven to 



And so when a month, may be more, 

had gone by, 
And borne out the June, and brought 

in the July. 
He came back the luck of the pruning 

to try. 

And lo ! when the sweeting was 

reached, it was found 
That windfalls enough were strewn 

over the ground. 
But never an apple all blushing and 

sound. 

Then the farmer said, shaping his mo- 
tions to suit, 

First up to the boughs and then down 
to the fruit. 

" Come Johnny, come Joseph, and dig 
to the root ! " 

And straightway they came with their 
spades and their hoes. 

And threw off their jackets, and shout- 
ing, ' ; Here got 



They digged down and down with the 
sturdiest blow. v. 

And. by and by, Joseph his grubbing- 

hoe drew 
From the earth and the roots, crying. 

"Father, look ! do ! " 
And he pointed his words with the toe 

of his shoe ! 

And the farmer said, shaping a gesture 

to suit, 
" I see why our sweeting has brought 

us no fruit — 
There 's a worm sucking out all the 

sap at the root ! " 

Then John took his spade with an 

awful grimace, 
And lifted the ugly thing out of its 

place, 
And put the loose earth back in very 

short space. 

And when the next year came, it only 

is fair 
To say, that the sweeting rewarded the 

care, 
And bore them good apples, enough 

and to spare. 

And now, my dear children, whenever 

you see 
A life that is profitless, think of that 

tree ; 
For ten chances to one, you '11 find 

there will be 

Some habit of evil indulged day by day, 
And hid as the earth-worm was hid in 

the clay. 
That is steadily sapping the life-blood 

away. 

The fruit, when the blossom is blighted, 
will fall ; 

The sin will be searched out, no mat- 
ter how small ; 

So, what you 're ashamed to do, don't 
do at all. 



TO MOTHER FAIRIE. 

Good old mother Fairie, 
Sitting by your fire, 

Have you any little folk 
You would like to hire ? 





/ 


264 THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 


I want no chubby drudges 


That her little dog fed 


To milk, and churn, and spin, 


On one bone for a week ! 


Nor old and wrinkled Brownies, 




With grisly beards, and thin : 


She made apple-pies, 




And she made them so tart 


But patient little people, 


That the mouths of the children. 


With hands of busy care, 


Who ate them would smart ; 


And gentle speech, and loving hearts ; 


And these she went peddling 


Say, have you such to spare ? 


About in a cart. 


I know a poor, pale body, 


One day, on her travels, 


Who cannot sleep at night, 


She happened to meet 


And I want the little people 


A farmer, who said 


To keep her chamber bright ; 


He had apples so sweet 




That all the town's-people 


To chase away the shadows 


W 7 ould have them to eat. 


That make her moan and weep, 




To sing her loving lullabies, 


" And how do you sell them ? " 


And kiss her eyes asleep. 


Says Barbara Blue. 




" Why, if you want only 


And when in dreams she reaches 


A bushel or two," 


For pleasures dead and gone, 


Says the farmer, " I don't mind 


To hold her wasted fingers, 


To give them to you." 


And make the rings stay on. 






" What ! give me a bushel ? " 


They must be very cunning 


Cries Barbara Blue, 


To make the future shine 


" A bushel of apples, 


Like leaves, and flowers, and strawber- 


And sweet apples, too ! " 


ries,. 


" Be sure," says the farmer, 


A-growing on one vine. 


" Be sure, ma'am, I do." 


Good old mother Fairie, 


And then he said if she 


Since my need you know, 


Would give him a tart 


Tell me, have you any folk 


(She had a great basket full 


Wise enough to go ? 


There in her cart), 




He would show her the orchard, 




And then they would part. 


BARBARA BLUE. 


So she picked out a little one, 




Burnt at the top, 


There was an old woman 


And held it a moment, 


Named Barbara Blue, 


And then let it drop, 


But not the old woman 


And then said she had n't 


Who lived in a shoe, 


A moment to stop, 


And did n't know what 


And drove her old horse 


With her children to do. 


Away, hippity hop ! 


For she that I tell of 


One night when the air was 


Lived all alone, 


All blind with the snow, 


A miserly creature 


Dame Barbara, driving 


As ever was known. 


So soft and so slow 


And had never a chick 


That the farmer her whereabouts 


Or child of her own. 


Never would know, 


She kept very still, 


Went after the apples ; 


Some said she was meek ; 


And avarice grew 


Others said she was only m 


When she saw their red coats, 


Too stingy to speak ; 


Till, before she was through, 



POEMS FOR 


CHILDREN. 265 


She took twenty bushels, 


For, as sure as you 're alive, 


Instead of the two '. 


You will show for what you are. 


She filled the cart full, 




And she heaped it a-top. 


Till: GRATEFUL SWAN. 


And if just an apple 




Fell ort, she would Stop, 


ONE day, a poor peddler, 


And then drive ahead again, 


Who carried a pack, 


Hippity hop ! 


Felt something come 




Flippity-rlop on his back. 


Her horse now would stumble, 




And now he would fall. 


He looked east and west. 


And where the high river-hank 


He turned white, he turned red, 


Sloped like a wall. 


Then bent his back lower, 


Sheer down, they went over it. 


And traveled ahead. 


Apples and all ! 






The sun was gone down 




When he entered his door, 




And loosened the straps 


TAKE CARE. 


From his shoulders once more. 


Little children, you must seek 


Then up sprang his wife, 


Rather to be good than wise, 


Crying, " Bless your heart, John, 


For the thoughts you do not speak 


Here, sitting atop of your pack, 


Shine out in your cheeks and eyes. 


Is a swan. 


If you think that you can be 


"A wing like a lily, 


Cross or cruel, and look fair, 


A beak like a rose : 


Let me tell you how to see 


Now good luck go with her 


You are quite mistaken there. 


Wherever she goes ! " 


Go and stand before the glass, 


" Dear me ! " cried the peddler, 


And some ugly thought contrive, 


" What fullness of crop ! 


And my word will come to pass 


No wonder I felt her 


Just as sure as you 're alive ! 


Come flippity-flop ! 


What you have, and what you lack, 


•• I '11 bet you, good wife, 


All the same as what you wear, 


All the weight of my pack, 


You will see reflected back ; 


I 've carried that bird 


So, my little folks, take care ! 


For ten miles on my back ! " 


And not only in the glass 


" Perhaps," the wife answered, 


Will your secrets come to view : 


" She '11 lay a gold egg 


All beholders, as they pass. 


To pay you ; but, bless me ! 


Will perceive and know them too. 


She 's broken a leg." 


Goodness shows in blushes bright, 


Then went to the cupboard, 


Or in eyelids dropping down, 


And brought from the shelf 


Like a violet from the light : 


A part of the supper 


Badness, in a sneer or frown. 


She 'd meant for herself. 


Out of sight, my boys and girls, 


Of course two such nurses 


Every root of beauty starts ; 


Effected a cure ; 


So think less about your curls, 


One leg stiff, but better 


More about your minds and hearts. 


Than none, to be sure ! 


Cherish what is good, and drive 


" Xo wonder," says John, 


Evil thoughts and feelings far ; 


As she stood there a-lop, 



266 



THE POEMS OE ALICE CARY. 



" That I should have felt her 
Come flippity-flop ! " 

Then straight to his pack 

For a bandage he ran, 
While Jannet, the good wife, 

To splints broke her fan ; 

And, thinking no longer 

About the gold egg, 
All tenderly held her 

And bound up the leg ; 

All summer they lived 

Thus together — the swan, 

And peddler and peddler's wife 
Jannet and John. 

At length, when the leaves 
In the garden grew brown, 

The bird came one day 

With her head hanging down ; 

And told her kind master 

And mistress so dear, 
She was going to leave them 

Perhaps for a year. 

" What mean you ? " cried Jannet, 
" What mean you ? " cried John. 

"You will see, if I ever 

Come back," said the swan. 

And so, with the tears 

Rolling down, drip-a-drop, 

She lifted her snowy wings, 
Flippity-flop ! 

And sailed away, stretching 

Her legs and her neck, 
Till all they could see 

Was a little white speck. 

Then Jannet said, turning 

Her eyes upon John, 
But speaking, no doubt, 

Of the bird that was gone : 

" A wing like a lily, 

A beak like a rose ; 
And good luck go with her 

Wherever she goes ! " 

The winter was weary, 

But vanished at last, 
As all winters will do ; 

And when it was past, 



And doffies beginning 

To show their bright heads, 
One day as our Jannet 

Was making the beds — 

The beds in the garden, 
I 'd have you to know, 

She saw in the distance 
A speck white as snow. 

She saw it sail nearer 
And nearer, then stop 

And land in her garden path, 
Flippity-flop ! 

One moment of wonder, 
Then cried she, " O John ! 

As true as you 're living, man, 
Here is our swan ! 

" And by her sleek feathers, 
She comes from the south ; 

But what thing is this 

Shining so in her mouth ? " 

" A diamond ! " cried Johnny ; 

The swan nearer drew, 
And dropped it in Jannet's 

Nice apron of blue ; 

Then held up the mended leg 

Quite to her crop, 
And danced her great wings 

About, flippity-flop ! 

" I never beheld such a bird 

In my life ! " 
Cried Johnny, the peddler ; 

" Nor I ! " said his wife. 



A SHORT SERMON. 

Children, who read my lay, 
Thus much I have to say : 
Each day, and every day, 

Do what is right ! 
Right things, in great and small ; 
Then, though the sky should fall, 
Sun, moon, and stars, and all, 

You shall have light ! 

This further I would say: 
Be you tempted as you may, 
Each day, and every day, 
Speak what is true ! 



/OEMS FOR 


CHILDREN. 267 


True things, in great and small : 


Though he was n't the bird that sung to 


Then, though the sky should tall. 


be heard. 


Sun, moon, and stars, and all. 


Had twice as golden a throat. 


Heaven would show through ' 






But robin, bluebird, and all the birds, 


- you see and know. 


Were afraid as they could be : 


Do not out of thistles grow ; 


He looked so proud and sung so loud. 


And, though the blossoms blow 


Atop of the highest tree. 


White on the tree, 




Grapes never, never yet 


We often said, we children. 


On the limbs of thorns were set : 


He only wants to be seen ! 


So. it" you a good would get, 


For his bosom set like a piece of jet, 


Good you must be ! 


In the glossy leaves of green. 


Life's journey, through and through. 


He dressed his feathers again and 


Speaking what is just and true ; 


i in. 


Doing what is right to do 


Till the oil did fairly run. 


Unto one and all. 


And the tuft on his head, of bright 


When you work and when you play. 


blood-red, 


Each day. and every day ; 


Like a ruby shone in the sun. 


Then peace shall gild your way. 




Though the sky should fall. 


But summer lasts not always. 




And the leaves they faded brown ; 




And when the breeze went over the 




trees. 


STORY OF A BLACKBIRD. 


They fluttered down and down. 


Come, gather round me, children. 


The robin, and wren, and bluebird, 


Who just as you please would do, 


They sought a kindlier clime ; 


And hear me tell what fate befell. 


But the blackbird cried, in his foolish 


A blackbird that I knew. 


pride. 




'■ I '11 see my own good time !'" 


He lived one year in our orchard. 




From spring till fall, you see. 


And whistled, whistled, and whistled, 


And swung and swung, and sung and 


Perhaps to hide his pain ; 


sung. 


Until, one day, the air grew gray. 


In the top of the highest tree. 


With the slant of the dull, slow rain. 


He had a blood-red top-knot. 


And then, wing-tip and top-knot, 


And wings that were tipped to 


They lost their blood-red shine : 


match : 


Unhoused to be, in the top of a tree, 


And he held his head as if he said, 


Was not so very fine ! 


•• I "m a fellow hard to catch ! " 






At first he cowered and shivered, 


And never built himself a nest. 


And then he ceased to sing, 


Xor took a mate — not he ! 


And then he spread about his head, 


But swung and swung, and sung and 


One drenched and dripping wing. 


sung. 
In the top of the highest tree. 


And stiffer winds at sunset. 




Began to beat and blow : 


And yet, the little bluebird. 


And next daylight the ground was 


So modest and so shy. 


white 


Could beat him to death with a single 


With a good inch-depth of snow ! 


breath. 




If she had but a mind to try. 


And oh, for the foolish blackbird. 




That had n't a house for his head ! 


And the honest, friendly robin. 


The bitter sleet began at his feet 


That went in a russet coat. 


And chilled and killed him dead ! 



268 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



And the rabbit, when he saw him, 
Enrapt in his snowy shroud, 

Let drop his ears and said, with tears, 
" This comes of being proud." 



FAIRY-FOLK. 

The story-books have told you 

Of the fairy-folks so nice, 
That make them leathern aprons 

Of the ears of little mice ; 
And wear the leaves of roses, 

Like a cap upon their heads, 
And sleep at night on thistle-down, 

Instead of feather beds ! 

These stories, too, have told you, 

No doubt to your surprise, 
That the fairies ride in coaches 

That are drawn by butterflies ; 
And come into your chambers, 

When you are locked in dreams, 
And right across your counterpanes 

Make bold to drive their teams ; 
And that they heap your pillows 

With their gifts of rings and pearls ; 
But do not heed such idle tales, 

My little«boys and girls. 

There are no fairy-folk that ride 

About the world at night, 
Who give you rings and other things, 

To pay for doing right. 
But if you do to others what 

You 'd have them do to you, 
You '11 be as blest as if the best 

Of story-books were true. 



BURIED GOLD. 

In a little bird's-nest of a house, 
About the color of a mouse, 

And low, and quaint, and square — 
Twenty feet, perhaps, in all — 
With never a chamber nor a hall, 

There lived a queer old pair 
Once on a time. They are dead and 

gone ; 
But in their day their names were John 

And Emeline Adair. 

John used to sit and take his ease, 
With two great patches at his knees, 

And spectacles on his nose, 
With a bit of twine or other thread, 



That met behind his heavy head 
And tied the big brass bows. 

His jacket was a snuffy brown, 
His coat was just a farmer's gown, 

That once had been bright blue ; 
But the oldest man could hardly say 
When it was not less blue than gray, 
It was frayed and faded such a way, 

And both the elbows through ! 

But, somehow or other, Emeline 
Went dressed in silks and laces fine ; 

She was proud and high of head, 
And she used to go, and go, and go, 
Through mud and mire, and rain and 

snow, 
Visiting high and visiting low, 
As idle gossips will you know ; 
And many a thing that was n't so 

She told, the neighbors said. 

Amongst the rest that her husband 

John, 
Though his gown was poor to look 

upon, 
And his trowsers patched and old. 
Had money to spend, and money to 

spare, 
As sure as her name was Mrs. Adair ; 
And though she said it, who say it 

should not, 
Somewhere back or front of their lot, 
He had buried her iron dinner-pot, 
A pewter pan, and she did n't know 

what 
Beside, chock-full of gold ! 

Well, by and by her tongue got still, 
That had clattered and clattered like a 

mill, 
Little for good, and a good deal for ill, 
Having all her life- time had her will — 

The poor old woman died : 
And John, when he missed the whirl 

and whir 
Of her goosey-gabble, refused to stir, 
But moped till he broke his heart for 

her : 
And they laid him by her side. 

And lo ! his neighbors, young and old, 
Who had heard about the pot of gold 
Of which old Mrs. Adair had told, 
Got spades, and picks, and bars. 
You would have thought, had you seen 

them dig, 
Sage and simple, little and big, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



269 



ind down and across the lot. 
They expected not only to find the pot 
And the pan, but the moon and stai 

Just one. and only one man stayed 
At home and plied an honest trade. 

Contented to be told 
How they digged down under the shed, 
And up and out through the turnip-bed. 
Turning every inch 01 the lot, 
never finding sign of the pot 

That was buried full of gold ! 

And when ten years were come and 

g me, 
And poor old Emeline and John 

Had nearly been forgot, 
This careful, quiet man that stayed 
At home and plied an honest trade. 

Was the owner of the lot — 
Such luck to industry doth fall. 
And he built a house with a stately hall, 
Full fifty feet from wall to wall : 

And the foolish ones were envious 
That he should be rewarded thus 

Upon the very spot 
Where they had digged their strength 

away. 
Day and night, till their heads were 
gray. 

In search ot the pan and pot 
Which Mrs. Emeline Adair 
Had made believe were buried there. 

As buried thev were not. 



RECIPE FOR AN APPETITE. 

My lad. who sits at breakfast 
With forehead in a frown. 

Because the chop is under-done. 
And the fritter over-brown, — 

Just leave your dainty mincing, 
And take, to mend your fare. 

A slice of golden sunshine, 
And a cup of the morning air. 

And when you have eat and drunken. 

If you want a little fun. 
Throw by your jacket of broadcloth. 

And take an up-hill run. 

And what with one and the other 
You will be so strong and gay. 

That work will be only a pleasure 
Through all the rest of the day. 



And when it is time for supper. 
Your bread and milk will be 

As sweet as a comb of honey. 
Will you try my recipe ? 



THE PIG AND THE HEN. 

THE pig and the hen, 

They both got in one pen. 
And the hen said she would n't go out. 

••Mistress Hen," says the pig, 

•• Don't you be quite so big ! " 
And he gave her a push with his snout. 

*• You are rough, and you 're fat, 

But who cares for all that : 
I will stay if I choose," says the hen. 

•• No, mistress, no longer '. " 

Says pig : " I 'm the stronger, 
And 'mean to be boss of my pen ! " 

Then the hen cackled out 

Just as close to his snout 
As she dare : " You 're an ill-natured 
brute ; 

And if I had the corn, 

Just as sure as I 'm born, 
I would send you to starve or to root ! " 

" But you don't own the cribs ; 

So I thinly that my ribs 
Will be never the leaner for you : 

This trough is my trough. 

And the sooner you 're off," 
Says the pig. " wny the better you '11 
do ! " 

'• You 're not a bit fair, 

And you 're cross as a bear : 
What harm do I do in your pen ? 

But a pig is a pig, 

And I don't care a fig 
For the worst you can say," says the 
hen. 

Says the pig, " You will care 

If I act like a bear 
And tear your two wings from your 
neck." 

" What a nice little pen 

You have got ! " says the hen. 
Beginning to scratch and to peck. 

Now the pig stood amazed, 
And the bristles, upraised 
A moment past, fell down so sleek. 
" Neighbor Biddy," says he, 



2 70 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY, 



" If you '11 just allow me, 
I will show you a nice place to pick ! " 

So she followed him off. 
And they ate from one trough — 
They had quarreled for nothing, they 
saw ; 
And when they had fed, 
" Neighbor Hen," the pig said, 
" Won't you stay here and roost in my 
straw ? " 

" No, I thank you : you see 

That I sleep in a tree," 
Says the hen ; " but I must go away ; 

So a grateful good-by." 

" Make your home in my sty," 
Says the pig, " and come in every day." 

Now my child will not miss 

The true moral of this 
Little story of anger and strife ; 

For a word spoken soft 

Will turn enemies oft 
Into friends that will stay friends for 
life. 



SPADER AND FLY. 

Once when morn was flowing in, 

Broader, redder, wider, 
In her house with walls so thin 

That they could not hide her, 
Just as she would never spin, 

Sat a little spider — 
Sat she on her silver stairs, 
Meek as if she said her prayers. 

Came a fly, whose wings had been 

Making circles wider, 
Having but the buzz and din 

Of herself to guide her. 
Nearer to these walls so thin, 

Nearer to the spider, 
Sitting on her silver stairs, 
Meek as if she said her prayers. 

Said the silly fly, " Too long 

Malice has belied her ; 
How should she do any wrong, 

With no walls to hide her ? " 
So she buzzed her pretty song 

To the wily spider, 
Sitting on her silver stairs 
Meek as though she said her .prayers. 



But in spite her modest mien, 
Had the fly but eyed her 

Close enough, she would have seen 
Fame had not belied her — 

That, as she had always been, 
She was still a spider ; 

And that she was not at prayers, 

Sitting on her silver stairs. 



A LESSON OF MERCY. 

A boy named Peter 
Found once in the road 

All harmless and helpless, 
A poor little toad ; 

And ran to his playmate, 

And all out of breath 
Cried, "John, come and help, 

And we '11 stone him to death ! 

And picking up stones, 
The two went on the run, 

Saying, one to the other, 
" Oh won't we have fun ? " 

Thus primed and all ready, 
They 'd got nearly back, 

When a donkey came 

Dragging a cart on the track. 

Now the cart was as much 
As the donkey could draw, 

And he came with his head 
Hanging down ; so he saw, 

All harmless and helpless, 

The poor little toad, 
A-taking his morning nap 

Right in the road. 

He shivered at first, 

Then he drew back his leg, 
And set up his ears, 

Never moving a peg. 

Then he gave the poor toad, 
With his warm nose a dump, 

And he woke and got off 
With a hop and a jump. 

And then with an eye 

Turned on Peter and John, 

And hanging his homely head 
Down, he went on. 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



2~\ 



u We can't kill him now. John," 
Says Peter, M that 'a flat, 

In the lace of an eye and 
An action like that ! " 

- For my part, I have n't 

The lieart to," says John ; 
"But the load is too heavy 

That donkey has on : 

•• Let 's help him ; " so both lads 

off with a will 

And came up with the cart 

At the foot of the hill. 

And when each a shoulder 

Had put to the wheel. 
They helped the poor donkey 

A wonderful deal. 

When they got to the top 
Back again they both run, 

eing they never 
Had had better fun. 



THE FLOWER SPIDER. 1 

You 'ye read of a spider, I suppose, 
Dear children, or been told, 

That has a back as red as a rose, 
And legs as yellow as gold. 

Well, one of these tine creatures ran 
In a bed of flowers, you see, 

Until a drop of dew in the sun 
Was hardly as bright as she. 

Her two plump sides, they were be- 
sprent 
With speckles of all dyes, 
And little shimmering streaks were 
bent 
Like rainbows round her eyes. 

Well, when she saw her legs a-shine, 
And her back as red as a rose, 

She thought that she herself was fine 
Because she had fine clothes ! 

Then wild she grew, like one possessed, 
For she thought, upon my word, 

That she was n't a spider with the 
rest, 
And set up for a bird ! 

1 A spider that lives among flowers, and takes its 
color irom them. 



Aye, for a humming-bird at that ! 
And the summer day all through, 

With her head in a tulip-bell she sat, 
The same as the hum-birds do. 

She had her little foolish day, 
But her pride was doomed to fall, 

And what do you think she had to pay 
In the ending of it all ? 

Just this ; on clew she could not sup, 
And she could not sup on pride, 

And so, with her head in the tulip cup, 
She starved until she died ! 

For in despite of the golden legs, 
And the back as red as a rose, 

With what is hatched from the spider's 
eggs 
The spider's nature goes ! 



DAN AND DIMPLE, AND 
THEY QUARRELED. 



HOW 



To begin, in things quite simple 
Quarrels scarcely ever fail — 

And they fell out, Dan and Dimple, 
All about a horse's tail ! 

So that by and by the quarrel 

Quite broke up and spoiled their 
play; 

Danny said the tail was sorrel, 
Dimple said that it was gray ! 

" Gray / " said Danny, " you are sim- 
" pie ! " 
" Just as gray as mother's shawl ! " 
" And that 's red ! " Said saucy Dim- 
ple, 
" You 're a fool, and that is all ! " 

Then the sister and the brother — 
As indeed they scarce could fail, 

In such anger, struck each other — 
All about the horse's tail ! 

"Red! " cried Dimple, speaking loudly, 
" How you play at fast and loose ! " 
'\ " Yes," said Danny, still more proudly, 
" When I 'm playing with a goose ! " 

In between them came the mother : 
" What is all this fuss about ?" 

Then the sister and the brother 
Told the story, out and out. 



272 THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 


And she answered, " I must label 


Or something stronger ? 


Each of you a little dunce, 


Walk right in. 


Since to look into the stable 


Hurry up, landlord, 


Would have settled it at once ! " 


With main and might, 




And don't make a thirsty man 


Forth ran Dan with Dimple after, 


Wait all night ! 


And full soon came hurrying back 




Shouting, all aglee with laughter, 


" Not any cider ? 


That the horse's tail was black ! 


And ale won't do. 




A brandy-smasher, then, 


So they both agreed to profit 


Glasses for two ! 


By the lesson they had learned, 


And mind you, landlord, 


And to tell each other of it 


Mix it strong, 


Often as the fit returned. 


And don't keep us waiting here 




All night long ! 


TO A HONEY-BEE. 


" Not any brandy ? 




Landlord, drum 


" Busy-body, busy-body, 


Something or other up. 


Always on the wing. 


Got any rum ? 


Wait a bit, where you have lit, 


Step about lively ! 


And tell me why you sing." 


Hot and strong, 




And don't keep us waiting here 


Up, and in the air again, 


All night long ! 


Flap, flap, flap ! 




And now she stops, and now she drops 


" Not any toddy ? 


Into the rose's lap. 


Not the least little bit ? 




Whiskey and water, then, 


" Come, just a minute come, 


That must be it ! 


From ypur rose so red." 


Step about, landlord, 


Hum, hum, hum, hum — 


We 're all right, 


That was all she said. 


And don't make a thirsty man 




Wait all night ! " 


Busy-body, busy-body, 




Always light and gay, 


" What 's wrong now, John ? 


It seems to me, for all I see, 


Come, sit down. 


Your work is only play. 


Don't you like white sugar ? 




Then have brown. 


And now the day is sinking to 


And, landlord, hark ye, 


The goldenest of eves, 


Cigars and a light, 


And she doth creep for quiet sleep 


And don't keep us waiting here 


Among the lily-leaves. 


Quite all night ! " 


" Come, just a moment come, 


" What '11 I have, man ? 


From your snowy bed." 


The right, to be sure, 


Hum, hum, hum, hum — 


To keep all the sense that 


That was all she said. 


God gave me secure ! 




The right to myself, man, 


But, the while I mused, I learned 


And, in the next place, 


The secret of her way : 


The right to look all 


Do my part with cheerful heart, 


Honest men in the face ! 


And turn my work to play. 






" So, waiter, you need not 




Be off on the run 


AT THE TAVERN. 


Till I 've countermanded 




All orders but one : 


" What 'll you have, John ? 


No liquor, no sugar, 


Cider or gin ? 


Nor brown, nor yet white, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



273 



And don't fetch cigars in, 
And don't fetch a light ! 

•' We 're on our way home 
To our children and wii 

And would n't stay plaguing them 

Not for our lives ; 
Fetch only the water. 

The rest is all wrong. 
We can't take the chances 

Of staying too long." 



WHAT A BIRD TAUGHT. 

M Why do you come to my apple-tree, 

Little bird so gray ? " 
Twit-twit, twit-twit.' twit-twit-twee ! 

That was all he would say. 

•• Why do you lock your rosy feet 

So closely round the spray 
Twit-twit, twit-twit, twit-tweet ! 

That was all he would say. 

" Why on the topmost bough do you 

Little bird so gray ? " 
Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 
That was all he would say. 

" Where is your mate ? come answer 
me. 

Little bird so gray ? " 
Twit-twit-twit ! twit-twit-twee ! 

That was all he would say. 

u And has she little rosy feet ? 
And is her body gray ? " 

Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 
That was all he would say. 

" And will she come with you and 
sit 

In my apple-tree some day ? " 
Twit-twit-twee ! twit-twit-twit ! 

He said as he flew away. 

M Twit-twit ! twit-twit ! twit ! tweet ! " 
Why, what in that should be 

To make it seem so very sweet ? 
And then it came to me. 

This little wilding of the wood, 
With wing so gray and fleet, 

Did just the best for you he could, 
And that is why 't was sweet. 
18 



OLD MAXIMS 

I think there are some maxims 

Under the sun, 
Scarce worth preservation ; 

But here, boys, is one 
So sound and so simple 

'T is worth while to know ; 
And all in the single line, 

" Hoe your own row ! " 

If you want to have riches, 

And want to have friends, 
Don't trample the means down 

And look for the ends ; 
But always remember 

Wherever you go, 
The wisdom of practicing, 

" Hoe your own row ! " 

Don't just sit and pray 

For increase of your store, 
But work ; who will help himself. 

Heaven helps more. 
The weeds while you 're sleep- 
ing, 

Will come up and grow, 
But if you would have the 

Full ear, you must hoe ! 

Nor will it do only 

To hoe out the weeds, 
You must make your ground mel- 
low 

And put in the seeds ; 
And when the young blade 

Pushes through, you must know 
There is nothing will strengthen 

Its growth like the hoe ! 

There 's no use of saying 

What will be, will be ; 
Once try it, my lack-brain. 

And see what you '11 see ! 
Why, just small potatoes, 

And few in a row ; 
You 'd better take hold then, 

And honestly hoe ! 

A good many workers 

I 've known in my time — 
Some builders of houses, 

Some builders of rhyme ; 
And they that were prospered, 

Were prospered, I know. 
By the intent and meaning of 

" Hoe vour own row ! " 



274 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



I 've known, too, a good many 

Idlers, who said, 
" I 've right to my living, 

The world owes me bread ! " 
A right / lazy lubber ! 

A thousand times No ! 
'T is his, and his only 

Who hoes his own row. 



PETER GREY. 

Honest little Peter Grey 

Keeps at work the livelong day, 
For his mother is as poor as a mouse ; 

Now running up and down 

Doing errands in the town, 
And now doing chores about the house. 

The boys along the street 
Often call him Hungry Pete, 

Because that his face is so pale ; 
And ask, by way of jest, 
If his ragged coat and vest 

And his old-fashioned hat are for sale. 

But little Peter Grey 

Never any shape nor way 
Doth evil for evil return ; 

He is firler than his clothes, 

And no matter where he goes 
There is some one the fact to discern. 

You might think a sneer, mayhap, 
Just a feather in your cap, 
If you saw him being pushed to the 
wall ; 
But my proudly-foolish friend, 
You might find out in the end 
You had sneered at your betters, after 
all. 

He is climbing up his way 

On life's ladder day by day ; 
And you who, to laugh at him, stop 

On the lower rounds, will wake, 

If I do not much mistake, 
To find him sitting snug at the top. 



A SERMON 

FOR YOUNG FOLKS. 

Don't ever go hunting for pleasures - 
They cannot be found thus I know 

Nor yet fall a-digging for treasures, 
Unless with the spade and the hoe 



The bee has to work for the honey, 
The drone has no right to the food, 

And he who has not earned his money 
Will get out of his money no good. 

The ant builds her house with her 
labor, 

The squirrel looks out for his mast, 
And he who depends on his neighbor 

Will never have friends, first or last. 

In short, 'tis no better than thieving, 
Though thief \s a harsh name to call ; 

Good things to be always receiving, 
And never to give back at all. 

And do not put off till to-morrow 
The thing that you ought to do now, 

But first set the share in the furrow, 
And then set your hand to the 
plough. 

The time is too short to be waiting, 
The day maketh haste to the night, 

And it 's just as hard work to be 
hating 
Your work as to do it outright. 

Know this, too, before you are older, 
And all the fresh morning is gone, 

Who puts to the world's wheel a 
shoulder 
Is he that will move the world on ! 

Don't weary out will with delaying, 
And when you are crowded, don't 
stop ; 

Believe me there 's truth in the saying : 
" There always is room at the top." 

To conscience be true, and to man 
true, 
Keep faith, hope, and love, in your 
breast, 
And when you have done all you can 
do, 
Why, then you may trust for the rest. 



TELLING FORTUNES. 

" Be not among wine-bibbers ; among riotous 
eaters of flesh ; for the drunkard and the glutton 
shall come to poverty; and drowsiness shall clothe 
a man with rags." — Prov. xxiii. 20, 21. 

I 'll tell you two fortunes, my fine 
little lad, 
For you to accept or refuse. 



/VE.VS /-Oft CHILDREX. 



275 



The one ot" them good, and the other 
one bad : 

Now hear them, and say which you 
choose ! 

I see by my gift, within reach of your 
hand, 
A fortune right fair to behold ; 
A house and a hundred good acres of 
land, 
With harvest fields yellow as gold. 

I see a great orchard, the boughs hang- 
ing down 
With apples of russet and red : 
I see droves of cattle, some white and 
brown. 
But all of them sleek and well-fed. 

I see doves and swallows about the 
barn doors. 
See the fanning-mill whirling so 
fast, 
men that are threshing the wheat 
on the floors : 
And now the bright picture is past ! 

And I see, rising dismally up in the 
place 
Of the beautiful house and the land, 
A man with a fire-red nose on his 
face. 
And a little brown jug in his hand ! 

Oh ! if you beheld him, my lad, you 
would wish 
That he were less wretched to see : 
For his boot-toes, they gape like the 
mouth of a fish. 
And his trousers are out at the knee ! 

In walking he staggers, now this way, 
now that, 
And his eyes they stand out like a 
bug's. 
And he wears an old coat and a bat- 
tered-in hat, 
And I think that the fault is the 
jug's : 

For our text says the drunkard shall 
come to be poor, 
And drowsiness clothes men with 
rags; 
And he does n't look much like a man, 
I am sure. 
Who has honest hard cash in his 
basis. 



Now which will you choose ? to be 
thrifty and snug, 
And to be right side up with your 
dish ; 
Or to go with your eyes like the eyes 
of a bug. 
And vour shoes like the mouth of a 
fish ! 



THE WISE FAIRY. 

Oxce, in a rough, wild country, 
On the other side of the sea, 

There lived a dear little fairy, 
And her home was in a tree. 

A dear little, queer little fairy, 
And as rich as she could be. 

To northward and to southward, 
She could overlook the land, 

And that was why she had her house 
In a tree, you understand. 

For she was the friend of the friend- 
less, 
And her heart was in her hand. 

And when she saw poor women 

Patiently, day by day, 
Spinning, spinning, and spinning 

Their lonesome lives away, 
She would hide in the flax of their dis- 
taffs 

A lump of gold, they say. 

And when she saw poor ditchers, 
Knee-deep in some wet dyke, 

Digging, digging, and digging, 
To their very graves, belike, 

She would hide a shining lump of gold 
Where their spades would be sure to 
strike. 

And when she saw poor children 
Their goats from the pastures take, 

Or saw them milking and milking, 
Till their arms were ready to break, 

What a plashing in their milking- 
pails 
Her gifts of gold would make ! 

Sometimes in the night, a fisher 
Would hear her sweet low call, 

And all at once a salmon of gold 
Right out of his net would fall ; 

But what I have to tell you 
Is the strangest thing of all. 



276 



THE POEMS OF ALICE CARY. 



If any ditcher, or fisher. 

Or child, or spinner old, 
Bought shoes for his feet, or bread to 
eat, 

Or a coat to keep from the cold, 
The gift of the good old fairy 

Was always trusty gold. 

But if a ditcher, or fisher, 
Or spinner, or child so gay, 

Bought jewels, or wine, or silks so fine, 
Or staked his pleasure at play, 

The fairy's gold in his very hold 
Would turn to a lump of clay. 

So, by and by the people 
Got open their stupid eyes : 

" We must learn to spend to some good 
end," 
They said, " if we are wise ; 

'T is not in the gold we waste or hold, 
That a golden blessing lies." 



A CHILD'S WISDOM. 

When the cares of day are ended, 
And I take my evening rest, 

Of the windows of my chamber 
This is that I love the best ; 

This one facing to the hill-tops 
And the orchards of the west. 

All the woodlands, dim and dusky, 
All the fields of waving grain, 

All the valleys sprinkled over 
With the drops of sunlit rain, 

I can see them through the twilight, 
Sitting here beside my pane. 

I can see the hilly places, 

With the sheep-paths trod across ; 
See the fountains by the waysides, 

Each one in her house of moss, 
Holding up the mist above her 

Like a skein of silken floss. 

Garden corners bright with roses, 
Garden borders set with mint, 

Garden beds, wherein the maidens 
Sow their seeds, as love doth hint, 

To some rhyme of mystic charming 
That shall come back all in print. 

Ah ! with what a world of blushes 
Then they read it through and 
through, 



Weeding out the tangled sentence 
From the commas of the dew : 

Little ladies, choose ye wisely, 
Lest some day the choice ye rue. 

I can see a troop of children, 
Merry-hearted boys and girls, 

Eyes of light and eyes of darkness, 
Feet of coral, legs of pearls, 



Racing toward the 



morning school- 



house . 
Half a head before their curls. 

One from all the rest I single, 
Not for brighter mouth or eyes, 

Not tor being sweet and simple, 
Not for being sage and wise : 

With my whole full heart I loved him, 
And therein my secret lies. 

Cheeks as brown as sun could kiss 
them, 

All in careless homespun dressed, 
Eager for the romp or wrestle, 

Just a rustic with the rest : 
Who shall say what love is made of ? 

'T is enough I loved him best. 

Haply, Effie loved me better — 

She with arms so lily fair, 
In her sadness, in her gladness, 

Stealing round me unaware ; 
Dusky shadows of the cairngorms 

All among her golden hair. 

Haply, so did willful Annie, 

With the tender eyes and mouth, 

And the languors and the angers 
Of her birth-land of the South : 

Still my darling was my darling — 
"I can love," I said, "for both."' 

So I left the pleasure-places, 
Gayest, gladdest, best of all — 

Hedge-row mazes, lanes of daisies, 
Bluebirds' twitter, blackbirds' call — 

For the robbing of the crow's nest, 
For the games of race and ball. 

So I left my book of poems - 
Lying in the hawthorn's shade, 

Milky flowers sometimes for hours 
Drifting down the page unread. 

" He was found a better poet ; 
I will read with him," I said. 

Thus he led me, hither, thither, 
To his young heart's wild content, 



eoems EOR CHILD REX. 



277 



Where so surly and so curly. 

With his black horns round him bent, 
Fed the ram that ruled the meadow — 

For where'er he called I went : 

Where the old oak. black and blasted, 
Trembled on his knotty knees. 

Where the nettle teased the cattle. 
Where the wild crab-apple trees 

Blushed with bitter fruit to mock us ; 
T was not I that was to please : 

Where the ox, with horn for pushing, 

Chafed within his prison stall : 
Where the long-leaved poison-ivy 
Clambered up the broken wall : 
Ah ! no matter, still I loved him 
First and last and best of all. 

When before the frowning master 
Late and lagging in we came, 

I would stand up straight before him, 
And would take my even blame : 

Ah ! my darling was my darling ; 
Good or bad *t was all the same. 

One day, when the lowering storm- 
cloud 

South and east began to frown, 
Flat along the waves of grasses, 

Like a swimmer, he lay down. 
With his head propped up and resting 

On his two arms strong and brown. 

On the sloping ridge behind us 

Shone the yet ungarnered sheaves ; 

Round about us ran the shadows 
Of the overhanging leaves, 

Rustling in the wind as softly 
As a lady's silken sleeves. 

Where a sudden notch before us 
Made a gateway in the hill, 



And a sense of desolation 

Seemed the very air to till. 
There beneath the weeping willows 

Lay the grave-yard, hushed and still. 

Pointing over to the shoulders 

Of the head-stones, white and high, 

Said I, in his bright face looking, 
"Think you you shall ever lie 

In among those weeping willows ? " 
" No ! " he said, " I cannot die ! " 

" Cannot die ? my little darling, 
'T is the way we all must go ! " 

Then the bold bright spirit in him 
Setting all his cheek aglow, 

He repeated still the answer, 
" I shall never die, I know ! " 

"Wait and think. On yonder hill- 
side 
There are graves as short as you. 
Death is strong." — " But He who 
made Death 
Is as strong, and stronger too. 
Death may take me, God will wake 
me, 
And will make me live anew." 

Since we sat within the elm shade 
Talking as the storm came on, 

Many a blessed hope has vanished, 
Many a year has come and gone ; 

But that simple, sweet believing 
Is the staff I lean upon. 



From my arms, so closely clasping, 

Long ago my darling fled ; 
Morning brightness makes no light- 
ness 

In the darkness where I tread : 
He is lost, and I am lonely, 

But I know he is not dead. 





.y^i^c^L. t^jt 








BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS, 



DOVECOTE MILL. 

THE HOMESTEAD. 

FROM the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy 

and grand, 
Stretching away on either hand. 
Lie fields of broad and fertile land. 

Acres on acres everywhere 
The look of smiling plenty wear, 
That tells of the master's thoughtful 
care. 

Here blossoms the clover, white and 

red. 
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread ; 
And the millet lifts her golden head. 

And. ripening, closely neighbored by 
Fields of barley and pale white rye, 
The yellow wheat grows strong and 
' high- 

And near, untried through the summer 

days. 
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce 

blaze, 
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 

Straying over the side of the hill, 
Here the sheep run to and fro at will, 
Nibbling of short green grass their 
nil. 

Sleek cows down the pasture take their 

ways, 
Or lie in the shade through the sultry 

days, 
Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 

Ah, you might wander far and wide, 
Nor find a spot in the country side, 
So fair to see as our valley's pride ! 



How, just beyond, if it will not tire 
Your feet to climb this green knoll 

higher, 
We can see the pretty village spire ; 

And, mystic haunt of the whippoor- 

wills, 
The wood, that all the background fills, 
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek 

hills. 

There, miles away, like a faint blue line, 
Whenever the day is clear and fine 
' You can see the track of a river shine. 

I Near it a city hides unseen, 
! Shut close the verdant hills between, 
As an acorn set in its cup of green. 

! And right beneath, at the foot of the 
hill, 
The little creek flows swift and still. 
That turns the wheel of Dovecote Mill. 

Nearer the grand old house one sees 
Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees, 
And tall straight pears, o'ertopping 
these. 

And down at the foot of the garden, 

low, 
On a rustic bench, a pretty show, 
White bee-hives, standing in a row. 

Here trimmed in sprigs with blossoms, 

each 
Of the little bees in easy reach, 
Hang the boughs of the plum and 

peach. 

At the garden's head are poplars, tall, 
And peacocks, making their harsh 

loud call, 
Sun themselves all day on the wall. 



282 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



And here you will find on every hand 
Walks, and fountains, and statues 

grand, 
And trees from many a foreign land. 

And flowers, that only the learned can 

name, 
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous 

flame, 
Putting the poor man's blooms to 

shame. 

Far away from their native air 

The Norway pines their green dress 

wear ; 
And larches swing their long loose hair. 

Near the porch grows the broad catal- 

pa tree 
And o'er it the grand wistaria, 
Born to the purple of royalty. 

There looking the same for a weary 

while, — 
'T was built in this heavy, gloomy 

style, — 
Stands the.mansion, a grand old pile. 

Always closed, as it is to-day, 
And the proud Squire, so the neigh- 
bors say, 
Frowns each unwelcome guest away. 

Though some who knew him long ago, 
If you ask, will shake their heads of 

snow, 
And tell you he was not always so, 

Though grave and quiet at any time, — 
But that now, his head in manhood's 

prime, 
Is growing white as the winter's rime. 



THE GARDENER'S HOME. 

Well, you have seen it — a tempting 
spot ! 

Now come with me through the or- 
chard plot 

And down the lane to the gardener's 
cot. 

Look where it hides almost unseen, 
And peeps the sheltering vines be- 
tween, 
Like a white flower out of a bush of 
green. 



Cosy as nest of a bird inside. 
Here is no room for show or pride, 
And the open door swings free and 
wide. 

Across the well-worn stepping-stone, 
With sweet ground-ivy half o'ergrown, 
You may pass, as if the house were 
your own. 

You are welcome here to come or stay, 
For to all the host has enough to say ; 
And the good-wife smiles in a pleasant 
way. 

'T is a pretty place to see in the time, 
When the vines in bloom o'er the rude 

walls climb, 
And Nature laughs in her joyful prime. 

Bordered by roses, early and late, 

A narrow graveled walk leads straight 

Up to the door from the rustic gate. 

Here the lilac flings her perfume wide, 
And the sweet-brier, up to the lattice 

tied, 
Seems trying to push herself inside. 

A little off to the right, one sees 
Some black and sturdy walnut-trees, 
And locusts, whose white flowers scent 
the breeze. 

And the Dovecote Mill stands just be- 
yond, 

With its dull red walls, and the dron- 
ing sound 

Of the slow wheel, turning round and 
round. 

Here the full creek rushes noisily, 
Though oft in summer it runs half dry, 
And its song is only a lullaby. 

But the prettiest sight when all is done, 
That the eye or mind can rest upon, 
Or in the house or out in the sun ; — 

And whatever beside you may have 

met, 
The picture you will not soon forget, — 
Is little Bethy, the gardener's pet. 

Ever his honest laughing eyes 
Beam with a new and glad surprise, 
At the wit of her childish, quaint re- 
plies. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



283 



While the mother seems with a love 
more deep 
guard her always, awake or asleep, 
me with a sacred trust to keep. 

Here in the square room, parlor and 

hall. 
Stand the stiff-backed chairs against 

the wall. 
And the clock in the corner, straight 

and tall. 

Ranged on the cupboard shelf in sight, 
Glistens the china, snowy white, 
And the spoons and platters, bur- 
nished bright. 

Oft will a bird, or a butterfly dare 

To venture in through the window, 

bare. 
And opened wide for the summer air. 

And sitting near it you may feel 
Faint scent of herbs from the garden 

steal, 
And catch the sound of the miller's 

wheel. 

With wife and child, and his plot to 

till. 
Here the gardener lives contented still, 
Let the world outside 20 on as it will. 



THE MILL. 

With cobwebs and dust on the win- 
dow spread, 
On the walls and the rafters overhead, 
Rises the old mill, rusty red 

Grim as the man who calls it his own, 
Outside, from the gray foundation 

stone 
To the roof with spongy moss o'er- 

grown. 

Through a loop-hole made in the gable 

high, 
In and out like arrows fly 
The slender swallows, swift and shy. 

And with bosoms purple, brown, and 

white, 
Along the eves, in the shimmering 

light. 
Sits a row of cloves from morn till 

night. 



Less quiet far is the place within, 
Where the falling meal o'erruns the 

bin. 
And you hear the busy stir and din. 

Grave is the miller's mien and pace, 
But his boy, with ruddy, laughing face, 
Is good to see in this sombre place. 

And little Bethy will say to you, 
That he is good and brave and true, 
And the wisest boy you ever knew ! 

" Why Robert," she says, " was never 

heard 
To speak a cross or a wicked word, 
And he would n't injure even a bird ! " 

And he, with boyish love and pride, 
Ever since she could walk by his side, 
Has been her playmate and her guide. 

For he lived in the world three years 

before 
Bethy her baby beauty wore ; 
And is taller than she by a head or 

more. 

Up the plank and over the sill, 
In and out at their childish will, 
They played about the old red mill. 

They watched the mice through the 

corn-sacks steal, 
The steady shower of the snowy meal, 
And the water falling over the wheel. 

They loved to stray in the garden walks, 

Bordered by stalely hollyhocks 

And pinks and odorous marigold stalks. 

Where lilies and tulips stood in line 
By the candytuft and the columbine, 
And lady-grass, like a ribbon fine. 

Where the daffodil wore her golden 

lace, 
And the prince's-feather blushed in the 

face, 
And the cockscomb looked as vain as 

his race. 

And here, as gay as the birds in the 

bowers, 
Our children lived through their life's 

first hours, 
And grew till their heads o'ertopped 

the flowers. 



284 



SUGAR-MAKING. 



Swiftly onward the seasons flew, 
And enough to see and enough to do 
Our children found the long year 
through. 

They played in the hay when the fields 

were mowed, 
With the sun-burnt harvesters they 

rode 
Home to the barn a-top of the load, 

When her fragrant fruit the orchard 

shed, 
They helped to gather the apples spread 
On the soft grass — yellow, russet, and 

red. 

Down hill in winter they used to slide, 
And over the frozen mill-creek glide, 
Or play by the great bright fire inside 

The house ; or sit in the chimney 

nook, 
Pleased for the hundredth time to look 
Over the self-same picture-book. 

Castles, and men of snow they made, 
And fed with crumbs the robins, that 

stayed 
Near the house — half tame, and half 

afraid. 

So ever the winter-time flew fast, 
And after the cold short months were 

past 
Came the sugar-making on at last. 

'T was just ere the old folks used to 

say, 
" Now the oaks are turning gray, 
'T is time for the farmer to plant away ! " 

Before the early bluebird was there ; 
Or down by the brook the willow fair 
Loosed to the winds her yellow hair. 

Ah ! then there was life and fun enough, 
In making the "spile " and setting the 

trough, 
And all, till the time of the " stirring 

off." 

They followed the sturdy hired man, 
With his brawny arms and face of 
tan, 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 

Who gathered the sap each day as it 
ran, ' 

And they thought it a very funny sight, 
The yoke that he wore, like " Buck and 

Bright," 
Across his shoulders, broad, upright. 

They watched the fires, with awe pro- 
found, 

Go lapping the great black kettles 
round, 

And out the chimney, with rushing 
sound. 

They loved the noise of the brook, that 

slid 
Swift under its icy, broken lid, 
And they knew where that delicate 

flower was hid, 

That first in March her head upheaves ; 
And they found the tender "adam-and- 

eves " 
Beneath their bower of glossy leaves. 

They gathered spice-wood and ginseng 

roots, 
And the boy could fashion whistles 

and flutes 
Out of the paw-pan and walnut shoots. 

So every season its pleasure found ; 

Though the children never strayed be- 
yond 

The dear old hills that hemmed them 
round. 



THE PLAYMATES. 

Behind the cottage the mill-creek 

flowed, 
And before it, white and winding, 

showed 
The narrow track of the winter road, 

The creek when low, showed a sandy 

floor, 
And many a green old sycamore 
Threw its shade in summer from shore 

to shore. 

And just a quiet country lane, 
Fringed close by fields of grass and 

grain, 
Was the crooked road that crossed the 

plain. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE TO EMS. 



285 



Out of the fragrant fennel's bed 

On its bank, the purple iron-weed 

spread 
Her broad top over the mullein's head. 

Off through the straggling town it 
wound, 

Then led you down to beech-wood 
pond. 

And up to the school-house, just be- 
yond. 

Not far away was a wood's deep shade 
Where, larger grown, the boy and maid. 
Searching for § flowers and berries, 
strayed, 

And oft they went the field-paths 

through, 
Where all the things she liked he knew, 
And the very places where they grew. 

The hidden nook where Nature set 

The wind-flower and the violet, 

And the mountain-fringe in hollows wet. 

The solomon's-seal, of gold so fine, 
And the king-cup, holding its dewy 

wine 
Up to the crowned dandelion. 

He gathered the ripe nuts in the fall, 
And berries that grew bv fence and 

wall 
So high she could not reach them at all. 



For many a dull and rainy day 
They wiled the hours till night away 
Up in the mow on the scented hay. 

And many a dress was soiled and 

torn 
In climbing about the dusty barn 
And up to the lofts of wheat and corn. 

For they loved to hear on the roof, the 

rain. 
And to count the bins, again and again, 
Heaped with their treasures of golden 

grain. 

They played with the maize's sword- 
like leaves, 

And tossed the rye and the oaten 
sheaves, 

In autumn piled to the very eaves. 

They peeped in the stalls where the cat- 
tle fed, 

They fixed their swing to the beam 
o'erhead, — 

Turned the wind-mill, huge, and round, 
and red. 

And the treasure of treasures, the pet 

and toy, 
The source alike of his care and joy, 
Was the timid girl to the brave bright 

bov. 



When they went to school, her hand he 
took, 
The fruit of the hawthorn, black and | Lead her, and helped her over stile and 



red, 

Wild grapes, and the hip that came in- 
stead, 

Of the sweet wild roses, faded and dead. 

Then the curious ways of birds he knew. 
And where they lived the season 

through, 
And how they built, and sang, and flew. 

Sometimes the boughs he bended 

down, 
And Bethy counted with eyes that 

shone, 
Eggs, white and speckled, blue and 

brown. 

And oft they watched with wondering 

eye 
The swallows, up on the rafters high 
Teaching their timid young to fly. 



brook, 
And carried her basket, slate, and book. 

And he was a scholar, if Bethy said 

true, 
The hardest book he could read right 

through, 
And there was n't a " sum " that he 

could n't " do ! " 

Oh, youth, whatever we lose or se- 
cure, 

One good we can all keep safe and 
sure, 

Who remember a childhood, happy and 
pure ! 

And hard indeed must a man be made, 
By the toil and traffic of gain and trade, 
Who loves not the spot where a boy he 
played. 






286 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



And I pity that woman, or grave or gay, 
Who keeps not fresh in her heart alvvay 
The tender dreams of her life's young 
day ! 



THE SCHOOL. 

Swiftly the seasons sped away, 
And soon to our children came the day 
When their life had work as well as 
play. 

When they trudged each morn to the 
school-house set 

Where the winter road and the high- 
way met — 

Ah ! how plainly I see it yet ! 

With its noisy play-ground trampled 

so 
By the quick feet, running to and fro, 
That not a blade of grass could grow. 

And the maple-grove across the road, 
The hollow where the cool spring 

flowed, 
And greenfy the mint and calamus 

showed. 

And the house — unpainted, dingy, 

low, 
Shielded a little from sun and snow, 
By its three stiff locusts, in a row. 

I can see the floor, all dusty and bare, 
The benches hacked, the drawings rare 
On the walls, and the master's desk and 
chair : 

And himself, not withered, cross, and 

grim, 
But a youth, well-favored, shy, and 

slim ; 
More awed by the girls than they by 

him. 

With a poet's eye and a lover's voice, 
Unused to the ways of rustic boys, 
And shrinking from all rude speech 
and noise. 

Where is he ? Where should we find 

again 
The children who played together 

there ? 
If alive, sad women and thoughtful 

men : 



Where now is Eleanor proud and fine ? 
And where is dark-eyed Angivine, 
Rebecca, Annie, and Caroline ? 

And timid Lucy with pale gold hair, 
And soft brown eyes that unaware 
Drew your heart to her, and held it 
there ? 

There was blushing Rose, the beauty 

and pride 
Of her home, and all the country side ; 
She was the first we loved who died. 

And the joy and pride of our life's 

young years, 
The one we loved without doubts or 

fears, 
Alas ! to-day he is named with tears. 

And Alice, with quiet, thoughtful way 
Yet joining always in fun and play, 
God knows she is changed enough to- 
day ! 

I think of the boy no father claimed, 
Of him, a fall from the swing had 

lamed, 
And the girl whose hand in the mill 

was maimed. 

And the lad too sick and sad to play, 
Who ceased to come to school one 

day, 
And on the next he had passed away. 

And I know the look the master 

wore 
When he told us our mate of the day 

before 
Would never be with us any more ! 

And how on a grassy slope he was 

laid — 
We could see the place from where we 

played — 
A sight to make young hearts afraid. 
• 

Sometimes we went by two and three, 
And read on his tombstone thought' 

fully, 
" As I am now so you must be." 

Brothers with brothers fighting, slain, 
From out those school-boys some have 

lain 
Their bones to bleach on the battle- 
plain. 



BALLADS AXD XARRATLVE POE.VS. 



287 



Some have wandered o'er lands and 

seas. 
Some haply sit in families. 
With children's children on their knees. 

Some may have gone in sin astray, 
Many asleep by their kindred lay. 
Dust to dust, till the judgment day ! 



YOUTH AND MAIDEN. 

A half score years have sped away 
Since Robert and Bethy used to play 
About the yard and the mill, all day. 

For time must go, whatever we do ; 
And the boy as it went, to manhood 

grew. 
Steady and honest, good and true. 

Going on with the mill, when his father 

died ; 
He lived untempted there, untried, 
Knowing little of life beside. 

Striving not to be rich or great, 
Never questioning fortune or fate, 
Contented slowly to earn, and wait. 

Doing the work that was near his hand, 
Still of Bethy he thought and planned, 
To him the flower of all the land. 

And tall shy Bethy more quiet seems, 
With a tenderer light her soft eye 

beams, 
And her thoughts are vague as the 

dream of dreams. 

Oft she sings in an undertone 
Of fears and sorrows not her own. — 
The pains that love-lorn maids have 
known. 

Does she think as she breathes the 

tender sigh, 
Of the lover that 7 s coming, by and 

by ? 
If she will not tell you, how should I ? 

And when she walks in the evening 

bland 
Over the rich Squire's pleasant land, 
Does she long to be a lady, grand, 

And to have her fingers, soft and white, 
Lie in her lap, with jewels bright, 



And with never a task from morn till 
night ? 

Often, walking about the place, 

With bended head and thoughtful face, 

She meets the owner face to face. 

Sometimes he eyes her wistfully, 
As blushing with rustic modesty, 
She drops him a pretty courtesy, 

And looks as if inclined to say 
Some friendly word to bid her stay, 
Then, silent, turns abrupt away. 

And though to speak she never dares, 
She is sad to think that no one cares 
For the lonely man, with thin gray 
hairs. 

The good-wife, just as the girl was 

grown, 
Went from the places she had known, 
And the gardener and Bethy live alone. 



THE COUNTRY GRAVE-YARD. 

So she goes sometimes past Dovecote 

Mill, 
To the place of humble graves on the 

hill, 
Where the mother rests in the shadows 

still. 

Here, sleeping well as the sons of 

fame, 
Lie youth and maiden, sire and dame, 
With never a record but their name. 

And some, their very names forgot, 
Not even a stone to mark the spot, 
Yet sleep in peace ; so it matters not ! 

Here lieth one, who shouldered his 
gun, 

When the news was brought from Lex- 
ington ; 

And laid it down, when peace was 
won. 

Still he wore his coat of " army blue," 
Silver buckles on knee and shoe, 
And sometimes even his good sword, 
too. 

For however the world might change 
or gaze, 



288 



THE POEMS OF THCEBE CARY. 



He kept his ancient dress and ways, 
Nor learned the fashion of modern 
days. 

But here he had laid aside his staff, 
And you read half-worn, and guessed 

it half 
His quaint and self-made epitaph, — 

" Stoop down, my friends, and view his 

dust 
Who turned out one among the first 
To secure the rights you hold in trust. 

" Support the Constitution, plain ! 
By being united we form the chain 
That binds the tyrant o'er the main ! " 

Here from the good dead shut away 
By a dismal paling, broken and gray, 
Down in the lonesomest corner lay, 

A baby, dead in its life's first spring, 
And its hapless mother, a fair sad thing, 
Who never wore a wedding ring ! 

Often the maiden's steps are led 

Away to a lonely, grassy bed, 

With a marble headstone at its head : 

And carved there for memorial, 
Half hid by the willow branches' fall, 
The one word, " Mercy," that is all. 

Whether her life had praise or blame, 
All that was told was just the same, 
She was a woman, this her name. 

What beside there was naught to show, 
Though always Bethy longed to know 
The story of her who slept below. 

What had she been ere she joined the 

dead ; — 
Was she bowed with years, or young 

instead ; 
Was she a maiden, or was she wed ? 

Never another footstep here 

But the maiden's seemed to come a- 

near, 
Yet flowers were blooming from year 

to year. 

Something, whether of good or harm, 
Down to the dead one, like a charm 
Drew the living heart, fresh and 
warm : 



Yet haunts more cheerful our Bethy 

had, 
For youth loves not the things that 

are sad, 
But turns to the hopeful and the glad. 

Though somehow she has grown more 

shy, 
More silent than in days gone by, 
Whenever the tall young miller is 

nigh. 

As they walk together, grave and 

slow, 
No longer hand in hand they go : 
Who can tell what has changed them 

so ? 

Till the sea shall cease to kiss the 

shore, 
Till men and maidens shall be no 

more, 
'T is the same old story, o'er and 

o'er. 

Secret hoping, and secret fears, 
Blushing and sighing, smiles and tears, 
The charm and the glory of life's young 
years ! 



WOOING. 

Now in the waning autumn days 
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze, 
Shines through the soft and smoky 
haze. 

Fallen across the garden bed, 
Many a flower that reared its head 
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead. 

The pinks and roses have ceased to 

blow, 
The foxgloves stand in a long black 

row, 
And the daffodils perished long ago. 

Now the poplar rears his yellow spire, 
The maple lights his funeral pyre, 
And the dog-wood burns like a bush of 
fire. 

The harvest fields are bare again, 
The barns are filled to the full with 

grain 
And the orchard trees of their load 

complain. 



EALLADS AND -NARRATIVE TO EMS. 



289 



Huge sacks of corn o'er the floor are 

strewn. 
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on, 
And the miller's work seems never 

done. 

But now 't is the Sabbath eve, and 

still 
For a little while is the noisy mill, 
And Robert is free to go where he will. 

But think or do whatever he may, 
The face of Bethy he sees alway 
Just as she looked in the choir to-day. 

And as his thoughts the picture paint, 
The hope within his heart grows faint, 
As it might before a passionless saint. 

Looking away from the book on her 

knees, 
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees, 
Some one under the sycamore trees, 

Walking and musing slow, apart ; — 
But why should the blood with sudden 

start. 
Leap to her cheek from her foolish 

heart ? 

Oh. if he came now, and if he spake, 
What answer should she, could she 

make ? 
This was the way her thought would 

take. 

Now. troubled maid on the cottage sill, 
Be wise, and keep your pulses still, 
He has turned, he is coming up the 
hill! 

How he spake, or she made reply, 
How she came on his breast to lie, 
She could not tell you, better than I. 

But when the stars came out in the 

skies 
He has told his love, in whispered 

sighs, 
And she has answered, with downcast 

eyes. 

For somehow, since the world went 
round, 

For men who are simple, or men pro- 
found, 

Hath a time and a way to woo been 
found. 

19 



And maids, for a thousand, thousand 

years, 
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears 
Have answered blushing through 

smiles and tears. 

And why should these two lovers have 

more 
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore 
Than all the world who have lived be- 
fore ? 

Nay, she gives her hand to him who 

won 
Her heart, and she says, when this is 

done, 
There is no other under the sun 

Could be to her what he hath been ; 

For he to her girlish fancy then 

Was the only man in the world of men. 

She is ready to take his hand and 

name, 
For better or worse, for honor or 

blame ; — 
God grant it may alway be the same. 



PLIGHTED. 

Oh, the tender joy of those autumn 

hours, 
When fancy clothed with spring the 

bowers^ 
And the dead leaves under the feet 

seemed flowers ! 

Oh, the blessed, blessed days of youth, 
When the heart is filled with gentle 

ruth, 
And lovers take their dreams for truth. 

Oh, the hopes they had, and the plans 

they planned, 
The man and the maid, as hand in 

hand, 
They walked in a fair, enchanted land ! 

Marred with no jealousy, fear, or doubt, 
At worst, but a little pet or pout, 
Just for the " making up," no doubt ! 

Have I said how looked our wood 

nymph, wild ? 
And how in these days she always 

smiled, 
Guileless and glad as a little child ? 



290 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Her voice had a tender pleading tone, 
She was just a rose-bud, almost grown 
And before its leaves are fully blown. 

Graceful and tall as a lily fair, 

The peach lent the bloom to her 

blushes rare, 
And the thrush the brown of her rip- 
pling hair. 

Colored with violet, blue were her 

eyes, 
Stolen from the breeze her gentle sighs, 
And her soul was borrowed from the 

skies. 

And you, if a man, could hardly fail, 
If you saw her tripping down the 

dale, 
To think her a Princess of fairy tale ; 

Doomed for a time by charm or spell, 
Deep in some lonely, haunted dell, 
With mischief-loving elves to dwell. 

Or bound for a season, body and soul, 
Underneath a great green knoll, 
To live alone with a wicked Troll. 

You would have feared her form so 

slight 
Would vanish into the air or light, 
Or sudden, sink in the earth from 

sight. 

And you must have looked, and longed 

to see 
The handsome Prince who should set 

her free 
Come riding his good steed gallantly. 

Just as fair as the good year's prime, 
To our lovers was the cold and rime, 
For their bright lives had no winter- 
time. 

The drifts might pile, and the winds 

might blow, 
Still, up from the mill to the cottage, 

low, 
There was a straight path cut through 

the snow. 

And it only added another charm 

To the cheerful hearth, secure and 

warm, 
To hear on the roof and pane, the 

storm. 



Sometimes Bethy would, lightly say, 
Partly in earnest, partly in play, — 
" I wish it would never again be 
May ! " 

And he would answer, half pleased, 

half tried, 
As he drew her nearer to his side, 
" Nay, nay, for in spring I shall have 

my bride." 

And she 'd cry in a pretty childish pet, 
" Ah ! then you must have whom you 

can get ; 
I shall not marry for ages yet." 

Then gravely he 'd shake his head at 

this : 
But things went never so far amiss 
They were not righted at last by a kiss. 

And so the seasons sped merry and 

fast, 
And the budding spring-time came, 

and passed, 
And the wedding day was set at last. 

With never a quarrel, scarce a fear, 
Each to the other growing more dear, 
They kept their wooing a whole sweet 
year. 



. WEDDED. 

In the village church where a child she 

was led, 
Where a maiden she sang in the choir 

o'erhead, 
There were Bethy and Robert wed. 

Strong, yet tender and good looked he, 
As he took her almost reverently, 
And she was a pleasant sight to see. 

And men and women, far and wide, 
Came from village and country side 
To wish them joy and to greet the 
bride. 

The friends who knew them since they 

were born, 
Each with his best and bravest worn 
Did honor to them on their marriage 

morn. 

But one at the church was heard to 
say : 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



291 



" The Squire, whom none has seen to- 
day. 
Might have given the bride away, 

•• Vet his is a face 't were best to 
miss ; 

And what could he do at a time like 

this. 
But be a cloud on its happiness ? 

u So let him stay with his gloom and 

pride. 
For he is not fit to sit beside 
The wedding guests, or to kiss the 

bride." 

But Bethy, her heart was soft you 

know. 
To herself, as she heard it, whispered 

low. 
•• Who knows what sorrow has made 

him so ? " 

And looking awav towards the gloomy 

hall 
And then at the bridegroom fine and 

tall, 
She said, " I wish he had come for 

all : " 

Home through the green and shady 

lane, 
The way their childish feet had ta'en, 
They came as man and wife again. 

Just to the low old cottage here, 
Among the friends and places dear 
(For the gardener was not dead a year). 

And why. as the great do, should they 

range ? 
They needs must find enough of change, 
They are come to a world that is new 

and strange. 

Lovingly eventide comes on, 

The feast is eaten, the friends are 

gone, 
And wite and husband are left alone. 

In kindly parting they have prest 
The hand of every lingering guest, 
And now they shut us out with the 
rest. 

Oh, joy too sacred to look upon. 
The very angels may leave alone. 
Two happy souls by love made one ! 



But whatever they gain or whatever 

they miss. 
The poor have no time in a world like 

this. 
To waste in sorrow or happiness. 

For men who have their bread to earn 
Must plant and gather and grind the 

corn, 
And the miller goes to the mill at 

morn. 

He blushes a little, it may be, 
As with jokes about his family 
The rough hands tease him merrily. 

But lightly, gayly, as he replies, 
A braver, prouder light in his eyes 
Shows that 'he loves and can guard his 
prize. 

And the voice o'er the roar of the mill- 
wheel heard, 
In the house is as soft in every word, 
As if the wife were some timid bird ; 

And he strokes her hair as we handle 

such 
Dear things that we love to pet so 

much, 
And yet are half afraid to touch. 

And Bethy, pretty, young, and gay, 
Trying the strange new matron way, 
Seems to ' : make believe," like a child 
at play, 

In and out the whole day long, 

At work in the house, or her flowers 

among, 
You scarce can hear the birds for her 

song. 

Though many times does she steal, I 
ween, 

A glance at the mill, the blinds be- 
tween, 

Blushing, and careful not to be seen. 

But busy with sewing, broom, or meal, 
Swiftly away the moments steal. 
And she hears the last slow turn of the 
wheel. 

And the miller glad, but tired and slow, 
Comes, looking white as the man of 

snow 
They made in the winter, long ago. 



292 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Oft the cottage door is opened wide, 
Before his hand the latch has tried, 
By the eager wife who waits inside. 

Though sometimes out from a hiding- 
place, 

She slyly peeps, when he comes, to 
trace 

The puzzled wonder of his face. 

And she loves to see the glad sur- 
prise, 

That, when from her secret nook she 
flies, 

Shines in his happy, laughing eyes. 

And he, before from his hand she slips, 
Leaves the mark on her waist of finger 

tips, ..;. . 
And powders her pretty face and lips. 



THE BABY. 

O'er the miller's cottage the seasons 

glide, 
And at the ngxt year's Christmas-tide 
We see her a mother, we saw a bride. 

All in the spring was the brown flax 

spun, 
All in the summer it bleached in the 

sun ; 
In the autumn days was the sewing 

done. 

And just when the Babe was born of 

old, 
Close wrapped in many a dainty fold, 
She gave the mother her babe to hold. 

Ah, sweetly the maiden's ditties rung, 
And sweet was the song the young 

wife sung ; 
But never trembled yet on her tongue, 

Such tender notes as the lullabies, 
That now beside the cradle rise 
Where softly sleeping the baby lies. 

And the child has made the father grow 
Prouder, as all who see may know, 
Than he was of his bride, a year ago. 

He kinder too has grown to all, 
And oft as the gloomy shadows fall, 
He speaks of the Squire in his lonely 
hall. 



And Bethy, even more tender grown, 
Says, almost with tears in her tone, 
How he 's growing old in his home 
alone. 

For now, 'that her life is so bright and 

fair, 
She thinks of all men with griefs to 

bear ; 
And of sorrowful women everywhere, 

Who sit with empty hands to hold, 
And weep for babies dead and cold, — 
And of such as never had babes to 
hold. 

So the miller and wife live on in their 

cot 
Untroubled, content , with what they 

have got ; — 
Hath the whole wide world a happier 

lot? 

And the neighbors all about declare, 
That never a better, handsomer pair, 
Are seen at market, church, or fair. 

So free from envy, pride, or guile, 
They keep their rustic simple style, 
And bask in fortune's kindliest smile. 

Though time and tide must go as they 

will, 
And change must even cross the sill 
Of the happy Miller of Dovecote Mill. 



THE FATHER. 

Hushed is the even-song of the bird, 
Naught but the katydid is heard, 
And the sound of leaves by the night 
wind stirred. 

Swarms of fireflies jise and shine 
Out of the green grass, short and fine, 
Where, dotting the meadows, sleep the 
kine. 

And the bees, done flying to and fro, 
In the fields of buckwheat, white as 

snow, 
Cling to the hive, in a long black row. 

Closed are the pink and the poppy red, 
And the lily near them hangs her head, 
And the camomile sleeps on the garden 
bed. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



293 



The wheel is still that has turned all 
day, 

And the mill stream runs unvexed 

away. 
Under the' thin mist, cool and gray, 

And the little vine-clad home in the 

dell 
With this quiet beauty suiteth well, 
For it seems a place where peace should 

dwell. 

And sitting to-night on the cottage sill 
Is the wife" of the Miller of Dovecote 

Mill, — 
Quiet Bethy, thoughtful and still. 

As she hears the cricket chirping low, 
And the pendulum swinging to and fro, 
And the child in the cradle, breathing 
slow ; 

Are her thoughts with her baby, fast 

asleep, 
Or do they wander away, and keep 
With him she waits for as night grows 

deep ? 

Or are they back to the days gone by, 
When free as the birds that swing and 

She lived with never a care or tie r 

Ah ! who of us all has ever known 
The hidden thought and the under- 
tone 
Of the bosom nearest to our own ! 

For the one we deemed devoid of art 
May have lain and dreamed on our 

trusting heart 
The dreams in which we had no part ! 

And Bethy, the honest miller's wife, 
Whom he loves as he loves his very 

life, 
May be with him and herself at strife. 

For she was only a child that day, 
When she gave her hand in the church 

away, 
And the friend-s who loved her used to 

say, — 

(For you know she was the country's 

pride,) 
If she ever had had a suitor beside 
She might not be such a willing bride ! 



Though never one would hint but he 
Was as true and good and fair as 

she, 
They wondered still that the match 

should be, 

And said, were she like a lady drest, 
There was not a fairer, east nor west ; — 
And yet it might be all for the best ! 

So who can guess her thoughts as her 

sight 
Rests on the road-track, dusty and 

white, 
The way the miller must come to-night ! 



Up in his gloomy house on the hill, 
He lies in his chamber, white and 

still,— 
The Squire, who owns the Dovecote 

Mill. 

What hath the rich man been in his 

day ? 
" Hard and cruel and stern, alway ; " — 
This is the thing his neighbors say, 

" Silent and grim as a man could 

be ; " — 
But the miller's wife, says, tenderly, 
" He has always a smile for the babe 

and me." 

But whatever he was, in days gone 

by, 

Let us stand in his presence reverently, 
For to him the great change draweth 
nigh. 

There the light is dim, and the June 

winds blow 
The heavy curtains to and fro, 
And the watchers, near him, whisper 

low. 

Something the sick man asks from his 

bed ; 
Is it the leech or the priest ? they 

said. 
" Nay, bring me Bethy, here," he said. 

'• Have you not heard me ; will you 

not heed ; 
Go to the miller's wife with speed, 
And tell her the dying of her hath 

need." 



294 



THE POEMS OF PIKE BE CARY. 



Slowly the watchers shook the head, 
They knew that his poor wits wan- 
dered ; 
" Yet, now let him have his way," they 
said. 

So when the turn of the night has 

come, 
She stands at his bedside, frightened, 

dumb, 
Holding his fingers, cold and numb. 

He has sent the watchers and nurse 

away, 
And now he is keeping death at bay, 
Till he rids his soul of what he would 

say. 

" Now, hear me, Bethy, I am not wild, 
As I hope to God to be reconciled, 
I am thy father — thou my child ! 

" I loved a maiden, the noblest one 
That ever the good sun shone upon : 
I had wealth and honors, she had 
none. 

" And when I wooed her, she answered 

me, — 
' Nay, I am too humble to wed with 

thee, 
Let me rather thine handmaid be ! ' 

" From home with me, for love, she 

fled 
The night that in secret we were wed ; 
And she kept the secret, living and 

dead. 

" Serving- for wages duly paid, 

In my home she lived, as an humble 

maid, 
Till under the grass of the churchyard 

laid. 

" Twenty years has remorse been fed, 
Twenty years has she lain there dead, 
With her sweet name Mercy, at her 
head. 

" How you came to the world was 

known 
But to the gardener's wife alone, 
Who took, and reared you up as her 

own. 

" Though conscience whispered, early 
and late, 



Your child is worthy a higher fate, 
Still shame and pride said, always, 
wait. 

" But alas ! a debt unpaid grows vast. 
And whether it come, or slow or 

fast, 
The day of reckoning comes at last. 

" So, all there was left to do, I have 

done, 
And the gold and the acres I have 

won 
Shall come to you with the morning's 

sun. 

" And may this atone ; oh would that 
it might, 

And lessen the guilt of my soul to- 
night, 

For the one great wrong that I cannot 
right." 

Scarcely the daughter breathed or 

stirred, 
As she listened close for another 

word : 
But " Mercy ! " was all that she ever 

heard. 

She clung to his breast, she bade him 

stay, 
But ere the words to her lips found 

way, 
She knew the thing that she held was 

clay. 

All that she had was a father's gold, 
Never his kind warm hand to hold, 
Never a kiss till his lips were cold ! 



THE WIFE. 

Brightly the morning sunshine glowed, 
As slowly, thoughtfully, Bethy trode 
Towards the mill by the winter road. 

Now she sees the mansion proud and 

And its goodly acres stretching away, 
And she knows that these are hers to- 
day. 

Glad visions surely before her rise, 
For bright in her cheek the color lies, 
And a strange new light in her tender 
eyes. 



BALLADS AiYD NARRATIVE POEMS. 



295 



Now she is rich, and a lady born. 
Does she think of her last year's wed- 
ding morn. 
And the house where she came a bride, 
with scorn ? 

And to him. unfit for a lady, grand, 
To whom she gave her willing hand, 
Though he brought her neither house 
nor land ? 

How will she meet him ? what is his 

fate, 
Who eager leans o'er the rustic gate 
To watch her coming ? Hush and 

wait ! 

No word she says as over the sill, 
And into the cottage low and still, 
She walks bv the Miller of Dovecote 
Mill. 

Why does she tremble, the goodman's 

dame. 
And turn away as she speaks his 

name ? 
Is it for love, or alas ! for shame ? 

u Last night," she says, "as I watched 
for thee, 

Came those from the great house hur- 
riedly, 

Who said that the master sent for me : 

u That his life was burned to a feeble 

flame. 
But sleeping or waking all the same, 
And day and night he called my name. 

11 So I followed wondering, where they 

led, 
And half bewildered, half in dread, 
I stood at midnight by his bed. 

•• What matter, to tell what he said 

again : 
The dreams perchance of a wandering 

brain ! 
Only one thing is sure and plain. 

" Of his gold and land and houses 

fine, 
All that he had, to-day is thine, 
Since in dying he made them mine. 

" I would that the gift were in thy 

name, 
Vet mine or thine it is all the same ; 



And we must not speak of the dead 
with blame. 

" And who but thee should be his heir ? 
Thou hast served him ever with faith- 
ful care, 
And he had no son his name to bear ! " 

Slowly, as one who marveled still, 
Answered the Miller of Dovecote Mill. 
" 'T is a puzzle, tell it how you will, 

" Why his child could never better fare 
Than thou, with wealth enough and to 

spare, 
For it is not I but thou who art heir. 

" 'T is not so strange it should come 

to thee, 
Thou wert fit for a lady, as all could 

see, 
And rich or poor, too good for me." 

Meek before him she bowed her head ; 
" I want nor honor nor gold," she said, 
" I take my lot as it is instead. 

" Keep gold and lands and houses fine, 
But give me thy love, as I give thee 

mine, 
And my wealth shall still be more than 

thine ! 

"And if I had been in a mansion bred, 
And not in a humble cot," she said, 
11 I think we two should still have wed. 

" For if I had owned the acres grand, 
Instead of the gardener's scanty land, 
I had given them all for thy heart and 
hand. 

"So, heiress or lady, what you will, 

This only title I covet still, 

Wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill ! " 



A BALLAD OF LAUDERDALE. 

A shepherd's child young Barbara 
grew, 

A wild flower of the vale ; 
While gallant Duncan was the heir 

Of the Laird of Lauderdale. 

He sat at ease in bower and hall 
With ladies gay and fine ; 



296 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY, 



She led her father's sheep at morn, 
At eve she milked the kine. 

O'er field and fell his steed he rode, 

The foremost in the race ; 
She bounded graceful as the deer 

He followed in the chase. 

Yet oft he left his pleasant friends, 
And, musing, walked apart ; 

For vague unrest and soft desire 
Were stirring in his heart. 

One morn, when others merrily 
Wound horn within the wood, 

He on the hill-side strayed alone, 
In tender, thoughtful mood. 

And there, with yellow snooded hair, 

And plaid about her flung, 
Tending her pretty flock of sheep, 

Fair Barbara sat and sung. 

The very heath-flower bent to hear, 
The echoes seemed to pause, 

As sweet and clear the maiden sang 
The song of " Leader Haughs." 

And, while young Duncan, gazing, 
stood 

Enchanted by the sound, 
He from the arrows of her eyes 

Received a mortal wound ! 

"Sweet maid," he cried, "the first 
whose power 

Hath ever held me fast ; 
Now take my love, or scorn my love, 

You still shall be the last ! " 

She felt her heart with pity move, 

Yet hope within her died ; 
She knew her friendless poverty, 

She knew his wealth and pride. 

" Alas ! your father's scorn," she said, 
" Alas ! my humble state." 

."'Twere pity," Duncan gayly cried, 
But love were strong as hate ! " 

He took her little trembling hand, 

He kissed her fears away ; 
" Whate'er the morrow brings," he 
said, 

" We '11 live and love to-day ! " 

So all the summer through they met, 
Nor thought. what might betide, 



Till the purple heather all about 
The hills grew brown and died. 

One eve they, parting, lingered long 

Together in the dell, 
When suddenly a shadow black 

As fate between them fell. 

The hot blood rushed to Duncan's 
brow, 

The maiden's cheek grew pale, 
For right across their pathway frowned 

The Laird of Lauderdale. 

Ah ! cruel was the word he spake, 

And cruel was his deed ; 
He would not see the maiden's face, 

Nor hear the lover plead. 

He called his followers, in wrath, 
They came in haste and fright ; 

They tore the youth from out her arms, 
They bore him from her sight. 

And he at eve may come no more ; 

Her song no more she trills ; 
Her cheek is whiter than the lambs 

She leads along the hills. 

For Barbara now is left alone 
Through all the weary hours, 

While Duncan pines a prisoner, fast 
Within his father's towers. 

And autumn goes, and spring-time 
comes, 

And Duncan, true and bold, 
Has scorned alike his father's threats 

And bribes of land and gold. 

And autumn goes, and spring-time 
comes, 

And Barbara sings and smiles : 
" 'T is fair for love," she softly says, 

" To use love's arts and wiles." 

No other counselor hath she 
But her own sweet constancy ; 

Yet hath her wit devised a way 
To set her true love free. 

One night, when slumber brooded deep 

O'er all the peaceful glen, 
She baked a cake, the like of which 

Was never baked till then. 

For first she took a slender cord, 
And wound it close and small ; 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



297 



Then in the barley bannock safe 
She hid the mystic ball. 

Next morn her father missed his 
child. 

He searched the valley round ; 
But not a maid like her within 

Twice twenty miles was found. 

For she hath ta'en the maiden snood 
And the bright curls from her head, 

And now she wears the bonnet blue 
Of a shepherd lad instead. 

And she hath crossed the silent hills, 
And crossed the lonely vale ; 

And safe at morn she stands before 
The towers of Lauderdale. 

And not a hand is raised to harm 

The pretty youth and tall. 
With just a bannock in his scrip, 

Who stands without the wall. 

Careless awhile he wanders round, 

But when the daylight dies 
He comes and stands beneath the 
tower 

Where faithful Duncan lies. 

Fond man ! nor sunset dyes he sees, 

Xor stars come out above ; 
His thoughts are all upon the hills, 

Where first he learned to love ; 

When suddenly he hears a voice, 
That makes his pulses start — 

A sweet voice singing " Leader 
Haughs," 
The song that won his heart. 

He leans across the casement high ; 

A minstrel boy he spies : 
He knows the maiden of his love 

Through all her strange disguise ! 

She made a sign, she spake no word, 
And never a word spake he ; 

She took the bannock from her scrip 
And brake it on her knee ! 

She threw the slender cord aloft, 
He caught and made it fast ; 

One moment more and he is safe, 
Free as the winds at last ! 

No time is this for speech or kiss, 
No time for aught but flight ; 



His good steed standing in the stall 
Must bear them far to-night. 

So swiftly Duncan brought him forth, 

He mounted hastily ; 
44 Now, set your foot on mine," he said, 

" And give your hand to me ! " 

He lifts her up ; they sweep the hills, 
They ford the foaming beck ; 

He kisses soft the loving hands 
That cling about his neck. 

In vain at morn the Laird, in wrath, 
Would follow where they fled ; 

They 're o'er the Border, far away, 
Before the east is red. 

And when the third day's sun at eve 

Puts on his purple state, 
Brave Duncan checks his foaming steed 

Before his father's gate. 

Out came the Laird, with cruel look, 
With quick and angry stride ; 

When at his feet down knelt his son, 
With Barbara at his side, 

" Forgive me, father," low he said, 

No single word she spake ; 
But the tender face she lifted up 

Plead for her lover's sake. 

She raised to him her trembling hands, 
In her eyes the tears were bright, 

And any but a heart of stone 
Had melted at the sight. 

" Let love," cried Duncan, " bear the 
blame, 

Love would not be denied ; 
Fast were we wedded yestermorn, 

I bring you here my bride ! " 

Then the Laird looked down into her 
eyes, 
And his tears were near to fall ; 
He raised them both from off the 
ground, 
He led them toward the Hall. 

Wondering the mute retainers stood, 
" Why give you not," he said, 

" The homage due unto my son, 
And to her whom he hath wed ? " 

Then every knee was lowly bent, 
And every head was bare ; 



298 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



" Long live," they cried, " his fair young 
bride, 
And our master's honored heir ! 

Years come and go, and in his stall 
The good steed idly stands ; 

The Laird is laid with his line to rest, 
By his children's loving hands. 

And now within the castle proud 

They lead a happy life ; 
For he is Laird of Lauderdale, 

And she his Lady wife. 

And oft, when hand in hand they sit, 

And watch the day depart, 
She sings the song of " Leader 
Haughs," 

The song that won his heart ! 



THE THREE WRENS. 

Mr. Wren and his dear began early 
one year — 
They were maried, of course, on St. 
Valentine's Day, — 
To build such a nest as was safest and 
best, 
And to get it all finished and ready 
by May. 

Their house, snug and fine, they set up 
in a vine 
That sheltered a cottage from sun- 
shine and heat : 
Mrs. Wren said : " I am sure, this is 
nice and secure ; 
And besides, I can see in the house, 
or the street." 

Mr. Wren, who began, like a wise mar- 
ried man, 
Tp check his mate's weak inclination 
to roam, 
Shook his little brown head, and re- 
provingly said : 
" My dear, you had better be looking 
at home. 

"You '11 be trying the street pretty 
soon with your feet, 
And neglecting your house and my 
comfort, no doubt, 
And you '11 find a pretext for a call on 
them next, 
If you watch to see what other folks 
are about. 



" There 's your own home to see, and 
besides there is me, 
And this visiting neighbors is non- 
sense and stuff! 
You would like to know why ? well, 
you 'd better not try ; — 
I don't choose to have you, and that 
is enough ! " 

Mrs. Wren did not say she would have 

her own way, — 
In fact, she seemed wonderfully meek 

and serene ; 
But she thought, I am sure, though she 

looked so demure, 
" Well I don't care ; I think you 're 

most awfully mean ! " 

Mr. Wren soon flew off, thinking, likely 
enough, 
I could manage a dozen such creat- 
ures with ease ; 
She began to reflect, I see what you 
expect, 
But if I know myself, I shall look 
where I please ! 

However, at night, when he came from 
his flight, 
Both acted as if there was nothing 
amiss : 
Put a wing o'er their head, and went 
chirping to bed, 
To dream of a summer of sunshine 
and bliss. 

I need scarcely remark, they were up 
with the lark, 
And by noon they were tired of work 
without play ; 
And thought it was best for the present 
to rest, 
And then finish their task in the cool 
of the day. 

So, concealed by the leaves that grew 
thick to the eaves, 
He shut himself in, and he shut the 
world out ; — 
" Now," said she, " he 's asleep, I will 
just take a peep 
In the cottage, and see what the folks 
are about." 

Then she looked very sly, from her 
perch safe and high, 
Through the great open window, left 
wide for the sun ; 



BALLADS AXD XAKRATfl'E POEMS. 



299 



And she said : " I can't see what the " Why ! she 's gone, I declare ! well, 

1 'd like to know where ? " 
And his head up and down peering 
round him lie dips ; 
All he saw in the gloom of the shadowy 
room. 
Was an innocent cat meekly licking 
her lips ! 



danger can be. 
I am sure here is nothing to fear or 
to shun ! 

" There s an old stupid cat, half asleep 
on the mat. 
But I think she 's too lazy to stir or 
to walk ; — 
Oh, you just want to show your impor- 
tance, I know. 
But you can't frighten me, Mr. Wren, 
with your talk ! 

" Now to have my own will, I '11 step 
down on that sill : 
I 'm not an inquisitive person — oh, 
no ; 
I don't want to see what *s improper 
for me. 
But I like to find out for myself that 
it's so." 

Then this rash little wren hopped on 
farther again, 
And grown bolder, flew in, and sat 
perched on a chair : 
Saying, " What there is here that is 
dreadful or queer, 
I have n't been able to find, I de- 
clare. 

'• Well, I wish for your sake, Mr. 
Wren, you would wake, 
And see what effect all your warning 
has had : 
Ah ! I '11 call up that cat, and we '11 
have a nice chat, 
And rouse him with talking — oh, 
won't he be mad ! " 

So she cried, loud and clear, " Good- 
day, Tabby, my dear ! 
I think neighbors a neighborly feel- 
ing should show." 
" How your friendliness charms," said 
Puss ; " come to my arms, 
I have had my eye on you some 
time, do you know ! " 



Something like a sharp snap broke that 

moment his nap, 
And Mr. Wren said, with a stretch 

and a wink : 
" I suppose, dear, your sleep has been I " Ah ! I can't love a wren, as I loved 



11 'T is too bad she's away; for, of 
course, I can't stay," 
Said the great Mr. Wren, "shut in 
this little space : 
We must come and must go, but 
these females, you know, 
Never need any changes of work or 
of place. 

And then he began, like a badly-used 
man, 
To twitter and chirp with an impa- 
tient cry ; 
But soon pausing, sang out, " She 's 
gone off in a pout, 
But if she prefers being alone, so do 
I ! 

" Yet the place is quite still, so I '11 
whistle until 
She returns to her home full of shame 
and remorse ; 
I 'm not lonesome at all, but it 's no 
harm to call ; 
She '11 come back fast enough when 
she hears me, of course ! " 

So he started his tune, but broke off 
very soon, 
As if he'd been wasting his time, 
like a dunce ; 
For he suddenly caught at a very wise 
thought, 
And he altered his whole plan of 
action at once. 

" Now, that cat," he exclaimed, " may 

be wrongfully blamed ; 
And since it 's a delicate matter to 

broach, 
I don't say of her, that she is not sans 

But I 'm sure in this matter she 's 
• not sans reproche ! 



tranquil and deep 
I just lost myself for a moment, I 
think. 



her, again, 
But I '11 try to be manly and act as I 

ought ; 



30b 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



And the birds in the trees, like the fish 
in the seas, 
May. be just as good ones as ever 



were caught. 



" And if one in the hand, as all men 
understand, 
Is worth two in the bush," Mr. Wren 
gravely said, 
" Then it seems to me plain, by that 
. same rule again, 
That a bird in the bush is worth 
two that are dead." 

So he dropped his sad note, and he 
smoothed down his coat, 
Till his late-ruffled plumage shone 
glossy and bright ; 
And light as a breeze, through the fields 
and the trees, 
He floated and caroled till lost to 
_ t the sight. 

And in no longer time than it takes for 
my rhyme, — 
Now would you believe it ? and is n't 
it Strange ! — 
He returned all elate, bringing home a 
new mate : 
But birds are but birds, and are given 
to change. 

Of .course, larger folks are quite crushed 
by such strokes, 
And never are guilty of like fickle 
freaks ; — 
Ah -! a bird's woe is brief, but our great 
human grief 
Will sometimes affect us for days 
and for weeks ! 

But this does not belong of good right 
to my song, 
For I started to tell about birds and 
their kind ; 
So I '11 say Mr. ; Wren, when he married 
again, 
Took a wife who had not an inquiring 
mind. 

For he said what was true : " Mrs. 
Wren^ number two, 
You would not have had such good 
fortune, my dear, 
If the first, who is dead, had believed 
what I said, 
And contented herself in her own 
proper sphere." 



Now, to some it might seem like the 
very extreme 
Of folly to ask what you know very 
well ; 
But this Mrs. Wren did, and behaved 
as he bid, 
Never asking the wherefore, and he 
did n't tell. 

Yes, this meek little bird never thought, 
never stirred, 
Without craving leave in the proper- 
est way : 
She said, with the rest, " Shall I sit on 
my nest 
For three weeks or thirteen ? I '11 
do just as you say ! " 

Now I think, in the main, it is best to 
explain 
The right and the reason of what we 
command ; 
But he would n't, not he ; a poor female 
was she, 
And he was a male bird as large as 
your hand ! 

And one more thing, I find, is borne in 
on my mind : 
Mr. Wren may be right, but it seems 
to me strange, 
That while both his grief and his love 
were so brief, 
He should claim such devotion and 
trust in exchange ! 

And yet I 've been told, that with birds 
young and old, 
All the males should direct, all the 
females obey ; 
Though, to speak for a bird, so at least 
I have heard, 
You must be one : — as I never was, 
I can't say ! 



DOROTHY'S DOWER. . 

IN THREE PARTS. 
PART I. 

"My sweetest Dorothy," said John,, 
Of course before the wedding, 

As metaphorically he stood, 
His gold upon her shedding, ; 

"Whatever thing you wish or want;. 
Shall be hereafter granted, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE FORMS. 



301 



ill my worldly goods are yours." 

The fellow was enchanted ! 

u About that little dower you have. 

You thought might yet come handy, 
Throw it away, do what you please, 
nd it on sugar-candy ! 

I like your sweet, dependent w.i 
I love you when you tease me : 

The more you ask. the more you spend, 
The better you will please me." 

PART II. 

'• Confound it, Dorothy ! " said John, 

" I have n't got it by me. 
You have n't, have you. spent that sum. 

The dower from Aunt Jemima ? 
_\" .• well that 's sensible for you : 

This fix is most unpleasant ; 
But money 's tight, so just take yours 

And use it for the present. 
Now I must go — to — meet a man ! 

13 v George ! I '11 have to borrow ! 
Lend me a twentv — that 's all right ! 

I '11 pay you back to-morrow." 

PART III. 

M Madam." says John to Dorothy, 

And past her rudely pushes, 
u You think a man is made of gold, 

And money grows on bushes ! 
Tout's shoes .' your doctor! Can't you 
now 

Get up some new disaster ? 
You and your children are enough 

To break John Jacob Astor. 
Where s what you had yourself when I 

Was fool enough to court you ? 
That little sum, till you got me, 

'T was what had to support you ! " 
'• It 's lent and gone, not very far : 

Pray don't be apprehensive." 
"Lent! I 've had use enough for it : 

My family is expensive. 
I did n't, as a woman would. 

Spend it on sugar-candy ! " 
*' No, John, I think the most of it 

Went for cigars and brandv ! "' 



BLACK RANALD. 

Jx the time when the little flowers are 
born. 
The joyfulest time of the year, 



Fair Marion from the Hall rode forth 
To chase the fleet red deer. 

She moved among her comely maids 

With such a stately mien 
That they seemed like humble violets 

By the side of a lily queen. 

For she, of beauties fair, was named 

The fairest in the land : 
And lovelorn youths had pined and 
died 

For the clasp of her lady hand. 

But never suitor yet had pressed 

Her dainty finger-tips ; 
And never cheek that wore a beard 

Had touched her maiden lips. 

She laughed and danced, she laughed 
and sang ; 
She bade her lovers wait ; 
Till the gallant Stuart Graeme, one 
morn, 
Checked rein at her father's gate. 

She blushed and sighed ; she laughed 
no more ; .. - 

She sang a low refrain ; 
And, when the bold young Stuart 
wooed, 
He did not woo in vain. 

And now, as to the chase she rides, 

Across her father's land, 
She wears a bright betrothal ring 

Upon her snowy hand. 

She loosed the rein, she touched the 
flank 
Of her royal red-roan steed. 
" Now, who among my friends," she 
said, 
'• Will vie with me in speed ?" 

She looked at Graeme before them all, 
Though her face was rosy red. 

"He who can catch me as I ride 
Shall be my squire," she said. 

Away ! they scarce can follow 
Even with their eager eyes ; 

She clears the stream, she skims the 
plain 
Swift as the swallow flies. 

Alack ! no charger in the train 
Can match with hers to-day ; 



302 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



The very deer-hounds, left behind, 
Are yelling in dismay. 

Far out upon the lonely moor 
Her speed she checks at last ; 

One single horseman follows her, 
With hoof-strokes gaining fast. 

She 's smiling softly to herself, 
She 's speaking soft and low : 

" None but the gallant Stuart Graeme 
Could follow where I go ! " 

She wheels her horse ; she sees a sight 
That makes her pulses stand ; 

Her very cheek, but now so red, 
Grows whiter than her hand. 

For, while no friend she sees the way 
Her frightened eyes look back, 

Black Ranald, of the Haunted Tower, 
Is close upon her track ! 

He 's gained her side ; he 's seized her 
rein — 

The crudest man in the land ; 
And he has clasped her virgin waist 

With his wicked, wicked hand. 

She feels his breath upon her face, 
She hears his mocking tone, 

As he lifts her from her red-roan steed 
And sets her on his own. 

" Proud Mistress Marion," he cries, 
" In spite of all your scorn, 

Black Ranald is your squire to-day, 
He '11 be your lord at morn ! " 

She hears no more, she sees no more, 

For many a weary hour, 
Till from her deadly swoon she wakes 

In Ranald's Haunted Tower. 

For, in the highest turret there, 

With never a friend in call, 
He has tied her hands with a silver 
chain 

And bound them to the wall. 

She fears no ghosts that haunt the dark, 
But she fears the coming dawn ; 

And her heart grows sick when at day 
she hears 
The prison-bolts withdrawn. 

She summons all her strength, as they 
Who for the headsman wait ; 



And she prays to every virgin saint 
To help her in her strait ; 

For she sees her jailer cross the sill. 

" Now, if you will wed with me," 
He said, " henceforth of my house and 
land 

You shall queen and ruler be." 

" Bold Ranald of the Tower," she said, 
" With heart as black as your name, 

I will only be the bride of Death 
Or the bride of Stuart Graeme. 

" I will make the coldest, darkest bed 
In the dismal church-yard mine. 

And lay me down to sleep in it, 
Or ever I sleep in thine ! " 

" I shall tame you yet, proud girl," he 
cried, 
" For you shall not be free, 
Nor bread nor wine shall pass your 
lips 
Till you vow to wed with me ! " 

She turned ; she laughed in his very 
face : 

" Sir Knave, your threats are vain ; 
Nor bread nor wine shall pass my lips 

Till I am free again ! " 

He echoed back her mocking laugh, 
He turned him on his heel ; 

When something smote upon his ear 
Like the ringing clang of steel. 

The bolts are snapped ; the strong 
door falls ; 

The Graeme is standing there ; 
And a hundred armed men at his back 

Are swarming up the stair ! 

Black Ranald put his horn to his lips 

And blew a warning note. 
" Your followers lie," brave Stuart 
said, 

" Six deep within the moat ! 

" Alone, a prisoner in your tower, 
Now yield, or you are dead ! " 

Black Ranald gnashed his teeth in 
rage, 
" I yield to none," he said. 

They drew their swords. " Now die 
the death," 
•Said Graeme, " you merit well." 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE. POEMS. 



;o3 



And as he spake, at Marion's feet 
The lifeless Ranald fell. 

The Stuart raised the death-pale maid ; 

He broke her silver chain : 
He bore her down, and set her safe 

On her good red- roan again. 

Now closely at his side she rides, 
Nor heeds them one and all ; 

And his hand ne'er quits her bridle-rein 
Till they reach her father's Hall. 

Then the glad sire clasps that hand in 
his own. 
While the tears to his beard drop 
slow ; 
" You have saved mv child and rid the 
land," 
He cries, 4i of a cruel foe ; 

" And if this maiden say not nay," — 
Her cheeks burned like a flame, — 

" Then you shall be my son to-night, 
And she shall bear your name." 

They have set the lights in every room ; 

They have spread the wedding-feast ; 
And from the neighboring cloister's 
cell 

They have brought the holy priest. 

And she is a captive once again — 

The timid, tender dove ! 
For she slipped the silver chain to 
wear 

The golden chain of love ! 

Sweet Marion, under her snow-white 
veil. 
Stands fast by her captor's side, 
As he binds her hands with the mar- 
riage-ring 
And kisses her first, a bride ! 



THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 

A STORY OF HOLLAND. 

The good dame looked from her cot- 
tage 

At the close of the pleasant day, 
And cheerily called to her little son 

Outside the door at play : 
" Come, Peter, come I I want you to 

go, 

\\ hile there is light to see, 



To the hut of the blind old man who 
lives 

Across the dike, for me ; 
And take these cakes I made for him — 

They are hot and smoking yet ; 
You have time enough to go and come 

Before the sun is set." 

Then the good-wife turned to her 
labor, 

Humming a simple song, 
And thought of her husband, working 
hard 

At the sluices all day long ; 
And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse black bread ; 
That he might find a fire at night, 

And find the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother, 

With whom all day he had played, 
And the sister who had watched their 
sports 

In the willow's tender shade ; 
And told them they 'd see him back 
before 

They saw a star in sight, 
Though he would n't be afraid to go 

In the very darkest night ! 
For he was a brave, bright fellow, 

With eye and conscience clear ; 
He could do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's 
nest, 

Nor brought a stork to harm, 
Though never a law in Holland 

Had stood to stay his arm ! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 

And eyes as bright as the day 
With the thoughts of his pleasant 
errand, 

He trudged along the way ; 
And soon his joyous prattle 

Made glad a lonesome place — 
Alas ! if only the blind old man 

Could have seen that happy face ! 
Yet he somehow caught the brightness 

Which his voice and presence lent ; 
And he felt the sunshine come and go 

As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 
And the winds began to rise, 

The mother looked from her door 
again, 
Shading her anxious eyes ; 



304 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



And saw the shadows deepen 

And birds to their homes come 
back, 
But never a sign of Peter 

Along the level track. 
But she said : " He will come at morn- 
in°" 

So I need not fret or grieve — 
Though it is n't like my boy at all 

To stay without my leave." 

But where was the child delaying ? 

On the homeward way was he, 
And across the dike while the sun was 
up 

An hour above the sea. 
He was stopping now to gather flow- 
ers, 

Now listening to the sound, 
As the angry waters dashed themselves 

Against their narrow bound. 
" Ah ! well for us," said Peter, 

" That the gates are good and strong, 
And my father tends them carefully, 

Or they would not hold you long ! 
You 're a wicked sea," said Peter ; 

" I know why you fret and chafe ; ' 
You would like to spoil our lands and 
homes ; 

But our sluices keep you safe ! " 

But hark ! Through the noise of wa- 
ters 
Comes a low,, clear, trickling sound ; 
And the child's face pales with terror, 
And his blossoms drop to the 
ground. 
He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand, 
He sees a stream not yet so large 

As his slender, childish hand. 
J Tis a leak in the dike / He is but a 
boy, 
Unused to fearful scenes ; 
But, young as he is, he has learned to 
know 
The dreadful thing that means. 
A leak in the dike! The stoutest 
heart • 
Grows faint that cry to hear, 
And the bravest man in all the land 

Turns white with mortal fear. 
For he knows the smallest leak may 
grow 
To a flood in a single night ; 
And he knows the strength of the 
cruel sea 
When loosed in its angry might. 



And the boy ! He has seen the 
danger, 

And, shouting a wild alarm, 
He forces back the weight of the sea 

With the strength of his single arm ! 
He listens for the joyful sound 

Of a footstep passing nigh ; 
And lays his ear to the ground, to 
catch 

The answer to his cry. 
And he hears the rough winds blowing, 

And the waters rise and fall, 
But never an answer comes to him, 

Save the echo of his call. 
He .sees no hope, no succor, 

His feeble voice is lost ; 
Yet what shall he do but watch and 
- . wait, 

Though he perish at his post ! 

So, faintly calling and crying 

Till the sun is under the sea ; 
Crying and moaning till the stars 

Come out for company ; 
He thinks of his brother and sister, 

Asleep in their safe warm bed ; 
He thinks of his father and mother, 

Of himself as dying — and dead ; 
And of how, when the night is over, 

They must come and find him at 
last : 
But he never thinks he can leave the 
place 

Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 

Is up and astir with the light, 
For the thought of her little Peter 

Has been with her all night. 
And now she watches the pathway, 

As yester eve she had done ; 
But what does she see so strange and 
black 

Against the rising sun ? 
Her neighbors are bearing between 
them 

Something straight to her door ; 
Her child is coming home, but not 

As he ever came before ! 

" He is dead !" she cries ; " my dar- 
ling ! " 
And the startled father hears, 
And comes and looks the way she 
looks, 
And fears the thing she fears : 
Till a glad shout from the bearers 
Thrills the stricken man and wife — 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE rOF.l/S. 



305 



" Give thanks, for your son h;\s saved 
our land. 

And God has saved his life 
So, there in the morning sunshine 

They knelt about the boy ; 
And every head was bared and bent 

In tearful, reverent joy. 

'T is many a year since then ; but still. 

When the sea roars like a flood. 
Their boys are taught what a boy can do 

Who is brave and true and good. 
For every man in that country 

Takes his son by the hand, 
And tells him of little Peter, 

Whose courage saved the land. 

They have many a valiant hero, 
Remembered through the vears : 
But never one whose name so oft 

Is named with loving tears. 
And his deed shall be sung by the 
cradle, 

And told to the child on the knee, 
So long as the dikes of Holland 

Divide the land from the sea ! 



THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE 
HEX. 

Once, a long time ago, so good stories 
begin, 

There stood by a roadside an old-fash- 
ioned inn ; 

An inn, which the landlord had named 
"The Blue Hen," 

While he. by his neighbors, was called 
" Uncle Ben ; " 

At least, they quite often addressed 

him that way 
When ready to drink but not ready to 

pay; 
Though when he insisted on having the 

cash, 
They went off, muttering " Rummy," 

and M Old Brandy Smash." 

He sold barrels of liquor, but still the 

old "Hen" 
Seemed never to flourish, and neither 

did "Ben;" 
For he drank up the profits, as every 

one knew, 
Even those who were drinking their 

profits up, too. 



So. with all they could drink, and with 

all they could pay. 
The landlord grew poorer and poorer 

each day ; 
Men said, as he took down the gin 

from the shelf, 
" The steadiest customer there was 

himself." 

There was hardly a man living in the 

same street 
But had too much to drink and too little 

to eat.; 
The women about the old " Hen " got 

the blues ; . 
The girls had no bonnets, the boys had 

no shoes. 

When a poor fellow died, he was borne 
on his bier 

By his comrades, whose hands shook 
with brandy and fear ; 

For of course, they were terribly fright- 
ened, and yet, 

They went back to " The Blue Hen " 
to drink and forget ! 

There was one jovial farmer who 
could n't get by 

The door of " The Blue Hen " without 
feeling dry ; 

One day he discovered his purse grow- 
ing light, 

u There must be a leak somewhere," 
he said. He was right ! 

Then there was the blacksmith (the 

best ever known 
Folks said, if he 'd only let liquor 

alone) 
Let his forge cool so often, at last he 

forgot 
To heat up his iron and strike when 

't was hot. 

Once a miller, going home from " The 

Blue Hen," 't was said, 
While his wife sat and wept by his sick 

baby's bed, 
Had made a false step, and slept all 

night alone 
In the bed of the river, instead of his 

own. 

Even poor "Ben" himself could not 

drink of the cup 
Of fire forever without burning up ; 



20 



306 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



He grew sick, fell to raving, declared 

that he knew 
No doctors could help him ; and they 

said so, too. 

He told those about him, the ghosts of 

the men 
Who used in their life-times to haunt 

" The Blue Hen, 
Had come back each one bringing his 

children and wife, 
And trying to frighten him out of his 

life. 

Now he thought he was burning ; the 

very next breath 
He shivered and cried, he was freezing 

to death ; 
That the peddler lay by him, who, long 

years ago, 
Was put out of " The Blue Hen," and 

died in the snow. 

He said that the blacksmith who turned 

to a sot, 
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him, 

redrhot ; 
That the builder, who swallowed his 

brandy fourth proof, 
Was pitching him downward, head first, 

from the roof. 

At last he grew frantic ; he clutched at 
the sheet, 

And cried that the miller had hold of 
his feet ; 

Then leaped from his bed with a ter- 
rible scream, 

That the dead man was dragging him 
under the stream. 

Then he ran, and so swift that no 
mortal could save ; 

He went over the bank and went under 
the wave ; 

And his poor lifeless body next morn- 
ing was found 

In the very same spot where the miller 
was drowned. 

" 'T was n't liquor that killed him," some 
said, " that was plain ; 

He was crazy, and sober folks might 
be insane ! " 

" 'T was delirium tremens" the cor- 
oner said, 

But whatever it was, he was certainly 
dead ! 



THE KING'S JEWEL. 

'T was a night to make the bravest 
Shrink from the tempest's breath, 

For the winter snows were bitter, 
And the winds were cruel as death. 

All day on the roofs of Warsaw 
Had the white storm sifted down 

Till it almost hid the humble huts 
Of the poor, outside the town. 

And it beat upon one low cottage 
With a sort of reckless spite 

As if to add to their wretchedness 
Who sat by its hearth that night ; 

Where Dorby, the Polish peasant, 
Took his pale wife by the hand, 

And told her that when the morrow 
came 
They would have no home in the land. 

No human hand would aid him 

With the rent that was due at morn ; 

And his cold, hard-hearted landlord 
Had spurned his prayers with scorn. 

Then the poor man took his Bible, 
And read, while his eyes grew dim, 

To see if any comfort 

Were written there for him ; 

When he suddenly heard a knocking 
On the casement, soft and light ; 

It was n't the storm ; but what else 
could be 
Abroad in such a night ? 

Then he went and opened the window, 
But for wonder scarce could speak, 

As a bird flew in with a jeweled ring 
Held flashing in his beak. 

'Tis the bird I trained, said Dorby, 
And that is the precious ring, 

That once I saw on the royal hand 
Of our good and gracious King. 

And if birds, as our lesson tells us, 
Once came with food to men, 

Who knows, said the foolish peasant, 
But they might be sent again ! 

So he hopefully went with the morn- 
ing* 
And knocked at the palace gate, 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



307 



And gave to the King the jewel 
They bad searched Cor long and late. 

And when he had heard the story 

Which the peasant had to tell : 
He gave him a fruitful garden. 
And a home wherein to dwell. 

And Dorby wrote o'er the doorway 
These words that all might see : 

M Thou hast called on the Lord in 
trouble. 
And He hath delivered thee ! *' 



EDGARS WIFE. 

I KNOW that Edgar *s kind and good, 
And f know my home is fine, 

If I only could live in it, mother, 
And only could make it mine. 

You need not look at me and smile, 
In such a strange, sad way : 

I am not out of my head at all, 
And I know just what I say. 

I know that Edgar freely gives 
Whate'er he thinks will please ; 

But it 's what we love that brings us 
good. 
And my heart is not in these. 

Oh, I wish I could stand where the 
maples 

Drop their shadows, cool and dim ; 
Or lie in the sweet red clover. 

Where I walked, but not with him ! 

Nay, you need not mind me, mother, 
I love him — or at the worst, 

I try to shut the past from my heart : 
But you know he was not the first ! 

And I strive to make him feel my life 
Is his, and here, as I ought : 

But he never can come into the world 
That I live in, in my thought. 

For whether I wake, or whether I sleep, 

It is always just the same ; 
I am far away to the time that was, 

Or the time that never came. 

Sometimes I walk in the paradise, 

That, alas ! was not to be ; 
Sometimes I sit the whole night long 

A child on my father's knee ; 



And when my sweet sad fancies run 

Unheeded as they list. 
They go and search about to find 

The things my life has missed. 

Aye ! this love is a tyrant always, 
And whether for evil or good, 

Neither comes nor goes for our bid- 
ding, — 
But I 've done the best I could. 

And Edgar 's a worthy man I know, 
And I know my house is fine : 

But I never shall live in it, mother, 
And I never shall make it mine ! 



THE FICKLE DAY. 

Last night, when the sweet young 
moon shone clear 

In her hall of starry splendor, 
I said what a maiden loves to hear, 

To a maiden true and tender. 
She promised to walk with me at noon, 

In the meadow red with clover ; 
And I set her words to a pleasant tune, 

And sang them over and over. 
So awake in the early dawn I lay, 

And heard the stir and humming 
The glad earth makes when her or- 
chestra 

Of a thousand birds is coming. 

I saw the waning lights in the skies 
Blown out by the breath of morn- 
ing ; 
And the morn grow pale as a maid who 
dies, 
When her loving wins but scorn- 
ing. 
And I said, the day will never rise ; 

On her cloudy couch she lingers, 
Still pressing the lids of her sweet 
blue eyes 
Close shut with her rosy fingers. 
But she rose at last, and stood arrayed 
Like a queen for a royal crowning. 
And thought her look was never 



made 
For changing or for frowning. 

But alas for the dreams that round us 
play ! 

For the plans of mortal making ! 
And alas for the false and fickle day 

That looked so fair at waking: ! 



3 o8 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



For suddenly on the world she frowned, 
Till the birds grew still in their 
places, 
And the blossoms turned their eyes on 
the ground 
To hide their frightened faces. 
And the light grew checkered where it 
lay, 
Across the hill and meadow, 
For she hid her sunny hair away 
Under a net of shadow. 

And close in the folds of a cloudy veil, 

Her altered beauty keeping, 
She breathed a low and lonesome wail, 

And softly fell a-weeping. 
And now, my dream of the time to be, 

My beautiful dream is over ; 
For no maiden will walk at noon with 
me 

In the meadow red with clover. 
And within and without I feel and see 

But woeful, weary weather ; 
Ah ! wretched day ; ah ! wretched me — 

We well may weep together ! 



THE MAID OF KIRCONNEL. 

Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea, 

Through lands of sunniest green, 
But for thy tender witchery 
" Fair Helen of Kirconnel lea," 
A happier fate had seen. 

And wood-bower sweet, whose vines 
displayed 

A royal wreath of flowers ; 
Why did you lure the dreaming maid, 
So oft beneath your haunted shade, 

To pass the charmed hours ? 

For hidden, like the feathery choir, 

There from the noontide's glance, 
She lit the heart's first vestal fire, 
And fed its flame of soft desire, 
With dreams of old romance. 

Poor, frightened doe, that sought the 
shade 

Of that sequestered place ; 
And led the tender, timid maid, 
Blushing, surprised, and half afraid, 

To meet the hunter's face. 

Not thine the fault, but thine the deed, 
Blind, harmless innocent ; 



When to that bosom, doomed to bleed, 
With cruel, swift, unerring speed, 
The fatal arrow went. 

Why came no warning voice to save, 

No cry upon the blast, 
When Helen fair, and Fleming brave, 
Sat on the dead Kirconnel's grave, 

And spake, and kissed their last ? 

O Mary, gone in life's voung bloom, 

O " Mary of the lea," 
Couldst thou not leave one hour the 

tomb, 
To save her from that hapless doom, 

So soon to sleep by thee ? 

Vain, vain, to say what might have been, 

Or strive with cruel Fate ; 
Evil the world hath entered in, 
And sin is death, and death is sin, 
And love must trust and wait. 

For here the crown of lovers true 

Still hides its flowers beneath — 
The sharpest thorns, that ever grew, 
The thorns that pierce us through and 
through, 
And make us bleed to death ! 



SAINT MACARIUS OF THE DES- 
ERT. 

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace, 
And happy as none but a saint can 
be, 
Abode in his cell, in a desert place, 

With only angels for company ; 
And fasting daily till vesper time, 
And praying oft till the hour of prime ; 

He wept so freely for all the sin 
That ever had stained his soul below, 
That, though the hue of his guilt had 
been 
As scarlet, it must have changed to 
snow. 

The Tempter scarce could charm his 

sight 
Who came transformed to an angel of 

light ; 
The demons that pursued his track 
He sent to a fiercer torment back ; 
And he wearied, with fast and penance 

grim, 
The fiends that were sent to weary him, 



HALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



309 



Until at last it came about 

That he vanquished the fiercest of 
Satan's brood. 
And the powers of darkness, tired out, 

Had left the anchoret unsubdued. 

Yet I marvel what they could have 
been 
The sins that he strove to wash 
away ; 
For he had tied from the haunts of 
men 
In the pure, sweet dawn of his man- 
hood's day. 
But surely now they were all forgiven. 
For alone in the desert, for sixty 
years. 
He had eat of its scant herbs morn 
and even, 
And black bread, moistened with 
bitter tears. 

Yet so cunning and subtle is the mesh 

For the souls of the unwary laid, 
And so strong is the power of the 
world and flesh, 
That the very elect have been be- 
trayed. 
And therefore even our holy saint, 
When fast and penance and watch 
were done, 
Made often bitter and loud complaint 
Of the artful wiles of the Evil One. 
For he found that none may flee from 
his ire. 
Or find a refuge and safe retreat, 
In the time when Satan doth desire 
To have and to sift the soul like 
wheat. 

Good Saint Macarius, having passed 
The long, hot hours of the day in 
prayer, 
Rose once an hungered, after a fast 
That was long for even a saint to 
bear. 
And looking without, where the shad- 
ows fell — 
'T was a sight most rare in that 
lonely place — 
Just at the door of his humble cell 

He saw a stranger face to face, 
Who greeted him in a tender tone, 
That fell on +iis weary heart like 
balm, 
As graciously from out his own 

He dropped in the hermit's open 
palm 



A cluster plucked from a fruitful vine, 
Ripe and ruddy, and full of wine. 
kk Thanks," said the saint, for his 
heart was glad, 
" My blessing take for a righteous 
deed ; 
'T is the very gift I would have had 
For one in his sore distress and 
need." 

Then, seizing a staff in his eager hand, 
He hurried over the burning sand, 
To a cell where a holy brother lay, 
Wasting and dying day by day, 
And gave, his dying thirst to slake. 
The fruit 't were a sin for himself to 
take. 

Alas ! the fainting hermit said, 

To the holy brother who watched his 

bed, 
Short at the worst can be my stay 
In this vile and wretched house of 

clay ; 
For my night is almost done below, 
And at break of day I must rise and 

go. 

Shall I yield at last the flesh to please, 
And lose my soul for a moment's ease ? 
Nay, take this gift to my precious son, 
Whose weary journey is scarce begun, 
For the burden of penance and fast 

and prayer 
Is a heavier thing for the young to 

bear. 
Therefore his sin were not as mine, 
Though he ate the pleasant fruit of the 

vine. 

So, before another hour had gone, 

The will of the dying man was done ; 

And the fair young monk, who had 
come to dwell 

For the good of his soul in a desert- 
cell, 

Had bound the sandals on his feet, 
And drawn his hood about his head, 

And, bearing the cluster ripe and 
sweet, 
Was crossing the desert with cheer- 
ful tread. 

For he said, 'T were well that an aged 
saint 
Should break his fast with fruits like 
these : 
But I in my vigor dare not taint 
My soul with self-indulgencies. 



3io 



THE POEMS OF PHG2BE CARY. 



And the holy father whom I seek, 

By praying and fasting oft and long, 
I fear me makes the flesh too weak 
To keep the spirit brave and strong. 

At the day-break Saint Macarius rose 

From his peaceful sleep with con- 
science clear, 
And lo ! the youngest monk of those 

Who lived in a desert-cell drew 
near ; 
And, greeting his father in the Lord, 

Passed reverently the open door. 
And again the hermit had on his board 

The fruit untouched as it was before. 

Then Saint Macarius joyful raised 
His thankful eyes and hands to 
heaven, 
And cried aloud : " The saints be 
praised 
That unto all my sons was given 
Such strength that, tempted as they 

have been, 
Not a single soul hath yielded to sin." 

And thenj though he had not broken 
fast, 
The lure was firmly put aside ; 
And in the future, as in the past, 
A self-denying man to the last, 

Good Saint Macarius lived and died. 
And he never tasted the fruit of the 
vine, 
Till he went to a righteous man's 
reward, 
And took of the heavenly bread and 
wine 
New in the kingdom of the Lord. 



FAIR ELEANOR. 

When the birds were mating and 
building 

To the sound of a pleasant tune, 
Fair Eleanor sat on the porch and spun 

All the long bright afternoon. 
She wound the flax on the distaff, 

She spun it fine and strong; 
She sung as it slipped through her 
hands, and this 

Was the burden of her song : 
"I sit here spinning, spinning, 

And my heart beats joyfully, 
Though my lover is riding away from 
me 

To his home by the hills of the sea." 



When the shining skeins were finished, 

And the loom its work had done, 
Fair Eleanor brought her linen out 

To spread on the grass in the sun. 
She sprinkled it over with water, 

She turned and bleached it white ; 
And still she sung, and the burden 

Was gay, as her heart was light : 
" O sun, keep shining, shining ! 

web, bleach white for me ! 
For now my lover is riding back 

From his home by the hills of the 

sea." 
j, 

When the sun, through the leaves of 
autumn, 
Burned with a dull-red flame, 
Fair Eleanor had made the robes 
To wear when her lover came. 
And she stood at the open clothes- 
press, 
And the roses burned in her face, 
As she strewed with roses and lav- 
ender 
Her folded linen and lace ; 
And she murmured softly, softly : 

" My bridegroom draws near to me, 
And we shall ride back together 

To his home by the hills of the 
sea." 

When the desolate clouds of winter 

Shrouded the face of the sun, 
Then the fair, fair Eleanor, wedded, 
Was dressed in the robes she had 
spun. 
But never again in music 

Did her silent lips dispart, 
Though her lover came from his home 
by the sea, 
And clasped her to his heart ; 
Though he cried, as he kissed and 
kissed her, 
Till his sobs through the house 
were heard — 
Ah, she was too happy where she had 
gone, 

1 ween, to answer a word ! 



BREAKING THE ROADS. 

About the cottage, cold and white, 
The snow-drifts heap the ground ; 

Through its curtains closely drawn to- 
night 
There scarcely steals a sound. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



311 



The task is clone that patient hands 
Through all the day have plied : 

And the flax- wheel, with its loosened 
bands, 
Is idly set aside. 

Above the hearth-tire's pleasant glare, 
Sings now the streaming spout ; 

The housewife, at her evening care. 
Is passing in and out. 

And still as here and there she rlits, 
With cheerful, hustling sound. 

Musing, her daughter silent sits. 
With eves upon the ground. 

A maiden, womanly and true, 
Sweet as the mountain-rose : 

No fairer form than hers ere grew 
Amid the winter snows. 

A rosy mouth, and o'er her brow 
Brown, smoothly-braided hair. 

Surely the youth beside her now 
Must covet flower so fair. 

For bashfulness she dare not meet 
His eyes that keep their place, 
teadfastly and long in sweet 
Perusal of her face. 

Herself is Lucy's only charm, 
To make her prized or sought ; 

And Ralph hath but the goodly farm 
Whereon his fathers wrought. 

He. with his neighbors, toiling slow 

To-day till sunset's gleam, 
Breaking a road-track through the 
snow, 

Has urged his patient team. 

They came at morn from every home, 
They have labored cheerily : 

They have cut a way through the 
snowy foam, 
As a good ship cuts the sea. 

And when his tired friends were gone, 

Their pleasant labors o'er, 
Ralph stayed to make a path, alone, 

To Lucy's cottage-door. 

The thankful dame her friend must 
press 

To share her hearth's warm blaze : 
What could the daughter give him less 

Than words of grateful praise ? 



And now the board has given its cheer, 

The eve has nearly gone, 
Vet by the hearth-tire bright and clear 

The youth still lingers on. 

The mother rouses from her nap, 
Her task awhile she keeps ; 

At last, with knitting on her lap, 
Tired nature calmly sleeps. 

Then Lucy, bringing from the shelf 
Apples that mock her cheeks, 

Falls working busily herself, 
And half in whisper speaks. 

And Ralph, for very bashfulness, 

Is held a moment mute ; 
Then drawing near, he takes in his 

The hand that pares the fruit. 

Then Lucy strives to draw away 

Her hand, yet kindly too, 
And half in his she lets it stay, — 

She knows not what to do. 



he cries, with 



flushing 



" Darling, 

cheek, 

" Forego awhile your task ; 
Lift up your downcast eyes and speak, 

'T is but a word I ask ! " 

He sees the color rise and wane 

Upon the maiden's face ; 
Then with a kiss he sets again 

The red rose in its place. 

The mother wakes in strange surprise, 
And wondering looks about, — 

" How careless, Lucy dear," she cries ; 
" You 've let the fire go out ! " 

Then Lucy turned her face away, 

She did not even speak ; 
But she looked as if the live coals lay 

A-burning in her cheek. 

" Ralph," said the dame, " you ne'er 
before 
Played such a double part : 
Have you made the way both to my 
door 
And to my daughter's heart ? " 

" I 've tried my best," cried happy 
Ralph, 

" And if she '11 be my wife, 
I '11 make a pathway smooth and safe 

For my darling all her life ! " 



312 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



All winter from his home to that 

Where Lucy lived content, 
Along a path made hard and straight, 

Her lover came and went. 

And when spring smiled in all her 
bowers, 

And birds sang far and wide, 
He trod a pathway through the flowers, 

And led her home a bride ! 



THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF. 

" Now, good-wife, bring your precious 
hoard," 
The Norland farmer cried ; 
"And heap the hearth, and heap the 
board, 
For the blessed Christmas-tide. 

"And bid the children fetch," he said, 
" The last ripe sheaf of wheat, 

And set it on the roof o'erhead, 
That the birds may come and eat. 

" And this we do for his dear sake, 
The Master kind and good, 

Who, of the loaves He blest and brake, 
Fed all the multitude." 

Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul, 
When they heard their father's 
words, 

Put up the sheaf, and one and all 
Seemed merry as the birds. 

Till suddenly the maiden sighed, 
The boys were hushed in fear, 

As, covering all her face, she cried, 
" If Hansei were but here ! " 

And when, at dark, about the hearth 
They gathered still and slow, 

You heard no more the childish mirth 
So loud an hour ago. 

And on their tender cheeks the tears 
Shone in the flickering light ; 

For they were four in other years 
Who are but three to-night. 

And tears are in the mother's tone ; 

As she speaks, she trembles, too : 
" Come, children, come, for the supper's 
done, 

And your father waits for you." 



Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul, 
Stood each beside his chair ; 

The boys were comely lads, and tall, 
The girl was good and fair. 

The father's hand was raised to crave 

A grace before the meat, 
When the daughter spake ; her words 
were brave 

But her voice was low and sweet : 

" Dear father, should we give the 
wheat 

To all the birds of the air ? 
Shall we let the kite and the raven eat 

Such choice and dainty fare ? 

" For if to-morrow from our store 

We drive them not away, 
The good little birds will get no more 

Than the evil birds of prey." 

"Nay, nay, my child," he gravely 
said, 

" You have spoken to your shame, 
For the good, good Father overhead, 

" Feeds all the birds the same. 

" He hears the ravens when they cry, 
He keeps the fowls of the air ; 

And a single sparrow cannot lie 
On the ground without his care." 

" Yea, father, yea ; and tell me this," — 
Her words came fast and wild, — 

" Are not a thousand sparrows less 
To Him than a single child ? 

" Even though it sinned and strayed 
from home ? " 

The father groaned in pain 
As she cried, " oh, let our Hansei come 

And live with us again ! 

" I know he did what was not right " — 

Sadly he shook his head ; 
" If he knew I longed for him to-night, 

He would not come," he said. 

" He went from me in wrath and pride ; 

God ! shield him tenderly ! 
For I hear the wild wind cry outside, 

Like a soul in agony." 

" Nay, it is a soul ! " Oh, eagerly 
The maiden answered then ; 

" And, father, what if it should be he, 
Come back to us again ! " 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



313 



She stops — the portal open flies 

Her tear is turned to joy : 
" Hansei ! " the startled father cries : 

And the mother sobs, " My boy ! " 

'Tisa bowed and humbled man they 
greet, 
With loving lips and eyes. 
Who tain would kneel at his father's 
feet. 
But he softly bids him rise ; • 

And he says, li I bless thee, O mine 
own ; 

Yea. and thou shalt be blest ! " 
While the happy mother holds her son 

Like a baby on her breast. 

Their house and love again to share 

The Prodigal has come ! 
And now there will be no empty chair. 

Nor empty heart in their home. 

And they think, as they see their joy 
and pride 
Safe back in the sheltering fold, 
Of the child that was born at Christ- 
mas-tide 
In Bethlehem of old. 

And all the hours glide swift away 
With loving, hopeful words. 

Till the Christmas sheaf at break of 
day 
Is alive with happy birds ! 



LITTLE GOTTLIEB. 

A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

Across the German Ocean, 
In a country far from our own, 

Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, 
Lived with his mother alone. 

They dwelt in the part of a village 
Where the houses were poor and 
small, 

But the home of little Gottlieb, 
Was the poorest one of all. 

He was not large enough to work, 
And his mother could do no more 

[Note.— In Norway the last sheaf from the har- 
vest-field is never threshed, but it is always reserved 
till Christmas Eve, when it is set up on the roof as a 
feast for the hungry birds.] 



(Though she scarcely laid her knitting 
down) 
Than keep the wolf from the door. 

She had to take their threadbare clothes, 
And turn, and patch, and darn ; 

For never any woman yet 
Grew rich by knitting yarn. 

And oft at night, beside her chair, 
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan 

The wonderful things he would do for 
her, 
When he grew to be a man. 

One night she sat and knitted, 
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, 

When a happy fancy all at once 
Upon his vision beamed. 

'T was only a week till Christmas, 
And Gottlieb knew that then 

The Christ-child, who was born that 
day, 
Sent down good gifts to men. 

But he said, " He will never find us, 
Our home is so mean and small. 

And we, who have most need of them, 
Will get no gifts at all." 

When all at once, a happy light 
Came into his eyes so blue, 

And lighted up his face with smiles, 
As he thought what he could do. 

Next day when the postman's letters 
Came from all over the land ; 

Came one for the Christ-child, written 
In a child's poor trembling hand. 

You may think he was sorely puzzled 

What in the world to do ; 
So he went to the Burgomaster, 

As the wisest man he knew. 

And when they opened the letter, 
They stood almost dismayed 

That such a little child should dare 
To ask the Lord for aid. 

Then the Burgomaster stammered, 
And scarce knew what to speak, 

And hastily he brushed aside 

A drop, like a tear, from his cheek. 

Then up he spoke right gruffly, 
And turned himself about : 



314 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



This must be a very foolish boy, 
And a small one, too, no doubt." 

But when six rosy children 
That night about him pressed, 

Poor, trusting little Gottlieb 
Stood near him, with the rest. 

And he heard his simple, touching 
prayer, 

Through all their noisy play ; 
Though he tried his very best to put 

The thought of him away. 

A wise and learned man was he, 
Men called him good and just ; 

But his wisdom seemed like foolish- 
ness, 
By that weak child's simple trust. 

Now when the morn of Christmas 
came 

And the long, long week was done, 
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, 

Rose up before the sun, 

And hastened to his mother, 

But he scarce might speak for fear, 

When he saw her wondering look, and 
saw 
The Burgomaster near. 

He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe, 
Nor his mother, meek and mild ; 

But he felt as if so great a man 
Had never been a child. 

Amazed the poor child looked, to find 
The hearth was piled with wood, 

And the table, never full before, 
Was heaped with dainty food. 

Then half to hide from himself the 
truth 
The Burgomaster said, 
While the mother blessed him on her 
knees, 
And Gottlieb shook for dread : 

" Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, 

To such as me for aid, 
Be grateful to your little son, 

And the Lord to whom he prayed ! " 

Then turning round to Gottlieb, 
" Your written prayer, you see, 

Come not to whom it was addressed, 
It only came to me ! 



" 'T was but a foolish thing you did, 

As you must understand ; 
For though the gifts are yours, you 
know, 

You have them from my hand." 

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, 
Where he humbly stood apart, 

" But the Christ-child sent them all the 
same, 
He put the thought in your heart ! " 



A MONKISH LEGEND. 

Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen, 
Are told of holy women and men, 
Who have heard, entranced in some 

lonely cell, 
The things not lawful for lip to tell ; 
And seen, when their souls were caught 

away, 
What they might not say. 

But one of the sweetest in tale or 

rhyme 
Is told of a monk of the olden time, 
Who read all day in his sacred nook 
The words of the good Saint Austin's 

book, 
Where he tells of the city of God, that 

best 
Last place of rest. 

Sighing, the holy father said. 
As he shut the volume he had read : 
"Methinks if heaven shall only be 
A Sabbath long as eternity, 
Its bliss will at last be a weary reign, 
And its peace be pain." 

So he wandered, musing under his 

hood, 
Far into the depths of a solemn wood ; 
Where a bird was singing, so soft and 

clear, 
That he paused and listened with 

charmed ear ; 
Listened, nor knew, while thus intent, 
How the moments went. 

But the music ceased, and the sweet 

spell broke, 
And as if from a. guilty dream he 

woke, 
That holy man, and he cried aghast, 
'• Mea culpa / an hour has passed, 



BALLADS AX J) NARRATIVE POEMS. 



315 



And I have not counted my beads, nor 
prayed 
To the saints for aid ! " 

Then, amazed he fled : but his horror 
grew, 

For the wood was strange, and the 

pathway new : 
Yet, with trembling step, he hurried 

on, 
Till at last the open plain was won. 
Where, grim and black, o'er the vale 

around. 
The convent frowned. 

u Holy Saint Austin ! " cried the monk, 
And down on the ground for terror 

sunk ; 
For lo ! the convent, tower, and cell, 
Sacred crucifix, blessed bell. 
Had passed away, and in their stead, 

Was a ruin spread. 

In that hour, while the rapture held 

him fast, 
A century had come and passed ; 
And he rose an altered man, and went 
His way. and knew what the vision 

meant : 
For a mighty truth, till then unknown, 
By that trance was shown. 

And he saw how the saints, with their 

Lord, shall say. 
A thousand years are but as a day : 
Since bliss itself must grow from bliss, 
And holiness from holiness : 
And love, while eternity's ages move, 
Cannot tire of love ! 



ARTHUR'S WIFE. 

I 'm getting better, Miriam, though it 
tires me yet to speak ; 

And the fever, clinging to me, keeps 
me spiritless and weak, 

And leaves me with a headache always 
when it passes off ; 

But I 'm better, almost well at last, ex- 
cept this wretched cough ! 

I should have passed the livelong day 
alone here but for you ; 

For Arthur never comes till night, he 
has so much to do ! 



And so sometimes I lie and think, till 
my heart seems" nigh to burst, 

Of the hope that lit my future, when I 
I watched his coming first. 

I wonder why it is that now he does 

not seem the same ; 
Perhaps my fancy is ;it fault, and he is 

not to blame ; 
It surely cannot be because he has me 

always near, 
For I feared and felt it long before the 

time he brought me here. 

Yet still, I said, his wife will charm 

each shadow from his brow, 
What can I do to win his love, or 

prove my loving now ? 
So I waited, studying patiently his 

every look and thought ; 
But I fear that I shall never learn to 

please him as I ought. 

I 've tried so many ways, to smooth his 

path where it was rough, 
But I always either do too much, or fail 

to do enough ; 
And at times, as if it wearied him, he 

pushes off my arm — 
The very things that used to please 

have somehow lost their charm. 

Once, when I wore a pretty gown, a 

gown he use to praise, 
I asked him, laughing, if I seemed the 

sweetheart of old days. 
He did not know the dress, and said, 

he never could have told, 
'T was not that unbecoming one, which 

made me look so old ! 

I cannot tell how anything I do may 

seems to him. 
Sometimes he thinks me childish, and 

sometimes stiff and prim ; 
Yet you must not think I blame him, 

dear ; I could not wrong him 

so — 
He is very good to me, and I am 

happy, too, you know ! 

But I am often troublesome, and sick 

too much, I fear. 
And sometimes let the children cry 

when he is home to hear. 
Ah me ! if I should leave them, with 

no other care than his ! 



316 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Yet he says his love is wiser than my 
foolish fondness is. 

I think he 'd care about the babe. I 
called him Arthur, too — 

Hoping to please him when I said, I 
named him, love, for you ! 

He never noticed any child of mine, ex- 
cept this one, 

So the girls would only have to do as 
they have always done. 

Give me my wrapper, Miriam. Help 
me a little, dear ! 

When Arthur comes home, vexed and 
tired, he must not find me 
here. 

Why, I can even go down-stairs : I al- 
ways make the tea. 

He does not like that any one should 
wait on him but me. 

He never sees me lying down when he 

is home, you know. 
And I seldom tell him how I feel, he 

hates to hear it so : 
Yet I 'm su»e he grieves in secret at 

the thought that I may die, 
Though he often laughs at me. and 



savs, kk You 're 
than I. - ' 



stronger now 



Perhaps there are some men who love 

more than they ever say : 
He does not show his feelings, but that 

may not be his way. 
Why, how foolishly I 'm talking, when 

I know he 's good and kind ! 
But we women always ask too much : 

more than we ever find. 

My slippers, Miriam ! No. not those ; 

bring me the easy pair. 
I surely heard the door below : I hear 

him on the stair ! 
There comes the old, sharp pain again, 

that almost makes me frown : 
And it seems to me I always 

when I try to keep it down 



cough 



Ah, Arthur ! take this chair of mine ; I 

feel so well and strong : 
Besides, I am getting tired of it — I 've 

sat here all day long. 
Poor dear ! you work so hard for me, 

and I 'm so useless, too ! 
A trouble to myself, and, worse, a 

trouble now to vou. 



GRACIE. 

Gracie rises with a light 

In her clear face like the sun, 
Like the regal, crowned sun 

That at morning meets her sight : 
Mirthful, merry little one, 
Happy, hopeful little one : 

What has made her day so bright ? 

Who her sweet thoughts shall divine, 

As she draweth water up. 

Water from the well-spring up ? 
What hath made the draught so fine, 

That she drinketh of the cup, 

Of the dewy, dripping cup, 
As if tasting royal wine ? 

Tripping up and down the stair. 
Hers are pleasant tasks to-day, 
Hers are easy tasks to-day : 

Done without a thought of care, 

Something makes her work but play, 
All her work delightful play, 

And the time a holiday. 

And her lips make melody, 

Like a silver-ringing rill. 

Like a laughing, leaping rill : 
Then she breaks off suddenly : 

But her heart seems singing still, 

Beating out its music still, 
Though it beateth silently. 

And I wonder what she thinks ; 
Only to herself she speaks. 
Very low and soft she speaks. 

As she plants the scarlet pinks. 

Something plants them in her cheeks, 
Sets them blushing in her cheeks. 

How I wonder what she thinks ! 

To a bruised vine she goes : 
Tenderly she does her part, 
Carefully she does her part, 

As if, while she bound the rose. 
She were binding up a heart. 
Binding up a broken heart. 

Doth she think but of the rose ? 

Bringing odorous leaf and flower 
To her bird she comes elate, 
Comes as one. with step elate, 

Cometh in a happy hour 
To a true and tender mate. 
Doth she think of such a mate ? 

Is she trimming cage and bower ? 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 317 


How she loves the flower she brings ! 


We saw her wrinkled, and pale, and 


Sec her press her lips to this. 


thin. 


Press her rosy mouth to this. 


And bowed with toil, but we could 


In a kiss that clings and clings. 


not see 


Hath the maiden learned that kiss, 


That her patient spirit grew straight 


Learned that lingering, loving ki>>. 


within, 


From such cold insensate thin. 


In the power of its upright purity. 


What has changed our pretty one ? 


Over and over, every day, 


A new light is in her eyes. 


Bleaching her linen in sun and rain, 


In her downcast, drooping eyes, 


We saw her turn it until it lay 


As she walks beneath the moon. 


As white on the grass as the snow 


What has waked those piteous sighs, 


had lain ; 


Waked her touching, tender sighs ? 




Has love found her out so soon ? 


But we could not see how her Father's 


- 


smile, 


Even her mother wonderingly 


Shining over her spirit there, 


Saith : " How strange our darling 


Was whitening for her all the while 


seems. 


The spotless raiment his people 


How unlike herself she seems." 


wear. 


And I answer : " Oft we see 




Women living as in dreams, 


She crimped and folded, smooth and 


When love comes into their dreams. 


nice, 


What if hers such dreaming be ? " 


All our sister's clothes, when she 




came to wed, — 


But she says, undoubtingly : 


(Alas ! that she only wore them twice, 


•• Whatsoever else it mean, 


Once when living, and once when 


This it surely cannot mean. 


dead !) 


Gracie is a babe to me, 




Just a child of scarce sixteen, 


And we said, she can have no wedding- 


And it seems but yestere'en 


day : 


That she sat upon my knee." 


Speaking sorrowfully, under our 
breath ; 


Ah wise mother ! if you proved 


While her thoughts were all where they 


Lover never crossed her way, 


give away 


I would think the self-same way. 


No brides to lovers, and none to 


Ever since the world has moved, 


death. 


Babes seemed women in a day : 




And, alas ! and welladay ! 


Poor Margaret ! she sleeps now under 


Men have wooed and maidens loved ! 


the sod, 




And the ills of her mortal life are 




past ; 
But heir with her Saviour, and heir of 


POOR MARGARET. 


God, 




She is rich in her Father's House at 


We always called her " poor Margaret," 


last. 


And spoke about her in mournful 




phrase ; 




And so she comes to my memory yet 




As she seemed to me in my childish 


LADY MARJORY. 


days. 
For in that which changing, waxeth old, 


The Lady Marjory lay on her bed, 
Though the clock had struck the 


In things which perish, we saw her 


hour of noon, 


poor. 


And her cheek on the pillow burned as 


But we never saw the wealth untold, 


red 


She kept where treasures alone en- 


As the bleeding heart of a rose in 


dure. 


June ; 



* 



3i8 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



* 



Like the shimmer and gleam of a 
golden mist 
Shone her yellow hair in the cham- 
ber dim ; 
And a fairer hand was never kissed 
Than hers, with its fingers white and 
slim. 



She spake to her women, suddenly, — 
" I have lain here long enough," she 
said ; 
" Lain here a year, by night and day, 
And I hate the pillow, and hate the 
bed. 
So carry me where I used to sit, 

I am not much for your arms to hold ; 
Strange phantoms now through my 
fancy flit, 
And my head is hot and my feet are 
cold ! " 

They sat her up once more in her chair, 
And Alice, behind her, grew pale 
with dread 
As she combed and combed her lady's 
hair, 
For the Jjever never left her head. 
And before her, Rose on a humble seat 
Sat, but her young face wore no 
smile, 
As she held in her lap her mistress' 
feet 
And chafed them tenderly all the 
while. 

" Once I saw," said the lady, " a saintly 

nun, 
Who turned from the world and its 

pleasures vain ; — 
When they clipped her tresses, one by 

one, 
How it must have eased her aching 

brain ! 
If it ached and burned as mine does 

now, 
And they cooled it thus, it was worth 

the price ; — 
Good Alice, lay your hand on my brow, 
For my head is fire and my feet are 

ice ! " 

So the patient Alice stood in her place 
For hours behind her mistress' chair, 

Bathing her fevered brow and face, 
Parting and combing her golden hair : 

And Rose, whose cheek belied her 
name, 
Sitting before her, awed and still, 



Kept at her hopeless task the same 
Till she felt, through all her frame, 
the chill. 

"How my thoughts," the Lady Mar- 
jory said, 
" Go slipping into the past once 
more : 
As the beads we are stringing slide 
down a thread, 
When we drop the end along the 
floor : 
Only a moment past, they slid 

Thus into the old time, dim and 
sweet ; 
I was where the honeysuckles hid 

My head and the daisies hid my feet. 
I heard my Philip's step again, 

I felt the thrill of his kiss on my 
brow ; 
Ah ! my cheek was not so crimson 
then, 
Nor my feet in the daisies cold as 
now ! 

" Dizzily still my senses swim, 

I am far away in a fairy land ; 
To the night when first I danced with 
him, 
And felt his look, as he touched my 
hand ; 
Then my cheeks were bright with the 
flush and glow 
Of the joy that made the hours so 
fleet; 
And my feet were rosy with warmth I 
know, 
As time to the music they lightly beat. 

" 'T is strange how the things I re- 
member, seem 
Blended together, and nothing plain; 
A dream is like truth, and truth like a 
dream, 
With this terrible fever in my brain. 
But of all the visions that ever I had, 
There is one returns to plague me 
most ; 
If it were not false it would drive me 
mad, 
Haunting me thus, like an evil ghost. 

u It came to me first a year ago, 

Though I never have told a soul be- 
fore, 
But I dreamed, in the dead of the 
night, you know. 
That under the vines beside the door, 



BALLADS AND XARRATIVE POEMS. 



3*9 



I watched for a step I did not hear. 
Stayed for a kiss I did not feel ; 
But I heard a something hiss in my ear 
Words that I shudder still to reveal. 
I made no sound, and I gave no start. 
But I stood as the dead on the sea- 
floor stand. 
While the demon's words fell slow on 
my heart 
As burning drops from a torturer's 
hand. 

'"Your Philip stays,' it said, 'to-night, 
Where dark eyes hold him with 
magic spell ; 
Eyes from the stars that caught their 
light. 
Not from some pretty blue flower's 
bell ! 
With raven tresses he waits to play, 
They have bound him fast as a bird 
in a snare, 
Did you think to hold him more than a 
day 
In the feeble mesh of your yellow 
hair? 

•• • Flowers or pearls in your tresses 
twist, 
As your fancy suits you, smile or 
sigh : 
Or give your dainty hand to be kissed 

By other lips, and he will not die : 
Hide your eyes in the veil of a nun, 
Weep till the rose in your cheek is 
dim ; 
Or turn to any beneath the sun, 

Henceforth it is all the same to 
him ! ' 

" This was before I took my bed ; — 

Do you think a dream could make 
me ill. 
Could put a fever in my head, 

And touch my feet with an icy chill ? 
Yet I Ve hardly been myself I know 

At times since then, for before my 
eyes 
The wildest visions come and go, 

Full of all wicked and cruel lies. 

" Once the peal of marriage-bells, with- 
out, 
Fell, or seemed to fall on my ear ; 
And I thought you went, and softly 
shut 
The window, so that I might not 
hear : 



That you turned from my eager look 
away, 
And sadly bent your eyes on the 
ground, 
As if you said, 'tis his wedding-day, 
And her heart will break if she hears 
the sound. 

" And dreaming once, I dreamed I 
woke, 
And heard you whisper, close at 
hand, 
Men said, Sir Philip's heart was broke, 
Since he gave himself for his wife's 
broad land ; 
That he smiled on none, but frowned 
instead, 
As he stalked through his halls, like 
a ghost forlorn ; 
And the nurse who had held him, a 
baby, said, 
He had better have died in the day 
he was born ! " 

So, till the low sun, fading, cast 

Across her chamber his dying beams, 
The Lady Marjory lived in the past. 

Telling her women of all her dreams. 
Then she changed; — "I am almost 
well," she said, 
" I feel so strangly free from pain ; 
Oh, if only the fever would leave my 
head, 
And if only my feet were warm again ! 
And something whispers me, clear and 
low, 
I shall soon be done with lying there, 
So to-morrow, when I am better, you 
know, 
You must come, good Alice, and 
dress my hair. 

" We will give Sir Philip a glad sur- 
prise, 
He will come, I know, at morn or 
night ; 
And I want the help of your hands and 
eyes 
To dress me daintily all in white ; 
Bring snowy lilies for my hair ; — 

And, Rose, when all the rest is done, 
Take from my satin slippers the pair 
That are softest and whitest, and put 
them on. 
But take me to bed now, where in the 
past 
You have placed me many a time 
and oft ; 



320 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



I am so tired, I think at last 

I shall sleep, if the pillow is cool and 
soft." 

So the patient Alice took her head. 
And the sweet Rose took her mis- 
tress' feet, 
And they laid her tenderly on the bed, 
And smoothed the pillow, and 
smoothed the sheet. 
Then she wearily closed her eyes, they 
say, 
On this world, with all its sorrow 
and sin ; 
And her head and her heart at the 
break of day, 
Were as cold as ever her feet had 
been ! 



THE OLD MAN'S DARLING. 

So I 'm " crazy," in loving a man of 

three-score ; 
Why, I never had come to my senses 

before. 
But I 'm doubtful of yours, if your 're 

thinking to prove 
My insanity, just by the fact of my love. 

You would like to know what are his 
wonderful wiles ? 

Only delicate praises, and flattering 
smiles ! 

'T is no spell of enchantment, no magi- 
cal art, 

But the way he says "darling," that 
goes to my heart. 

Yes, he's "sixty," I cannot dispute 

with you there, 
But you 'd make him a hundred, I 

think, if you dare ; 
And I 'm glad all his folly of first love 

is past, 
Since I 'm sure, of the two, it is best to 

be last. 

"His hair is as white as the snow- 
drift," you say ; 

Then I never shall see it change slowly 
to gray ; 

But I almost could wish, for his dear 
sake alone, 

That my tresses were nearer the hue 
of his own. 



" He can't see ;" then I '11 help him to 
see and to hear, 

If it 's needful, you know, I can sit very 
near ; 

And he's young enough yet to inter- 
pret the tone 

Of a heart that is beating up close to 
his own. 

I " must aid him ; " ah ! that is my 
pleasure and pride, 

I should love him for this if for noth- 
ing beside ; 

And though I 've more reasons than I 
can recall, 

Yet the one that " he needs me " is 
strongest of all. 

So, if I 'm insane, you will own, I am 

sure, 
That the case is so hopeless it 's past 

any cure ; 
And, besides, it is acting no very wise 

part, 
To be treating the head for disease of 

the heart. 

And if anything could make a woman 
believe 

That no dream can delude, and no 
fancy deceive ; 

That she never knew lover's enchant- 
ment before, 

It 's being the darling of one of three- 
score ! 



A TENT SCENE. 

Our generals sat in their tent one 
night, 

On the Mississippi's banks, 
Where Vicksburg sullenly still held out 

Against the assaulting ranks. 

They could hear the firing as they 
talked, 
Long after set of sun ; 
And the blended noise of a thousand 
guns 
In the distance seemed as one. 

All at once Sherman started to his 
feet, 

And listened to the roar, 
His practiced ear had caught a sound, 

That he had not heard before. 



BALLADS AND XARRATIVK POEMS. 



321 



'"They have mounted another gun on 
the walls ; 

'Tis new.'' he said " I know ; 
I can tell the voice of a gun, as a man 

Can tell the voice of his foe I 

"What ! not a soul of you hears but 
me ? 
No matter. I am right ; 
Bring me my horse : I must silence 
this 
Before I sleep to-night ! " 

He was gone : and they listened to the 
ring 
Of hoots on the distant track : 
Then talked anil wondered for a 
while. — 
In an hour he was back. 

" Well. General ! what is the news ? " 
they cried. 
As he entered flush and worn ; 
•• We have picked their gunners off, and 
the gun 
Will be dislodged at morn!" 



THE LADY JAQUELINE. 

'• False and tickle, or fair and sweet, 

I care not for the rest. 
The lover that knelt last night at my 
feet 
Was the bravest and the best. 
Let them perish all, for their power has 
waned, 
And their glory waxed dim : 
They were well enough while they 
lived and reigned. 
But never was one like him ! 
And never one from the past would I 
bring 
Again, and call him mine : — 
The King is dead, long live the King' " 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

"In the old, old days, when life was 
new. 

And the world upon me smiled, 
A pretty, dainty lover I had. 

Whom I loved with the heart of a 
child. 
When the buried sun of yesterday 

Comes back from the shadows dim, 
Then may his love return to me, 

And the love I had for him ! 



But since to-day hath a better thing 
To give, I '11 ne'er repine ; — 

The King is dead, long live the King .' " 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

•• And yet it almost makes me weep, 

Aye ! weep, and cry. alas ! 
When 1 think of one who lies asleep 

Down under the quiet grass. 
For he loved me well, and I loved 
again, 

And low in homage bent, 
And prayed for his long and prosper- 
ous reign. 

In our realm of sweet content. 
But not to the dead may the living 
cling. 

Nor kneel at an empty shrine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King /" 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

'•Once, caught by the sheen of stars 
and lace, 

I bowed for a single day. 
To a poor pretender, mean and base, 

Unfit for place or sway. 
That must have been the work of a 
spell, 

For the foolish glamour fled, 
As the sceptre from his weak hand 
fell, 

And the crown from his feeble head ; 
But homage true at last I bring 

To this rightful lord of mine, — 
The King is dead, long live the King / " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 

" By the hand of one I held most dear, 

And called my liege, my own ! 
I was set aside in a single year, 

And a new queen shares his throne. 
To him who is false, and him who is 
wed. 

Shall I give my fealty ? 
Nay, the dead one is not half so dead 

As the false one is to me ! 
My faith to the faithful now I bring, 

The faithless I resign ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King! " 

Said the Lady Jaqueline. 



'• Yea, all my lovers and kings 
were 

Are dead, and hid away, 
In the past, as in a sepulchre, 

Shut up till the judgment day. 
False or fickle, or weak or wed, 

They are all alike to me ; 



that 



322 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



And mine eyes no more can be mis- 
led, — 
They have looked on royalty ! 
Then bring me wine, and garlands 



bring 



For my king of the right divine ; — 
The King is dead, long live the King ! " 
Said the Lady Jaqueline. 



THE WIFE'S CHRISTMAS. 

How can you speak to me so, Charlie ! 

It is n't kind, nor right ; 
You would n't have talked a year ago, 

As you have done to-night. 

You are sorry to see me sit and cry, 
Like a baby vexed, you say ; 

When you did n't know I wanted a 
gift, 
Nor think about the day ! 

But I 'm not like a baby, Charlie, 

Crying for something fine ; 
Only a loving woman pained, 

Could shed such tears as mine. 

For every Christmas time till now — 
And that is why I grieve — 

It was you that wanted to give, Charlie, 
More than I to receive. 

And all I ever had from you 

I have carefully laid aside ; 
From the first June rose you pulled for 
me, 

To the veil I wore as a bride. 

And I wouldn't have cared to-night, 
Charlie, 
How poor the gift or small ; 
If you only had brought me something 
to show 
That you thought of me at all. 

The merest trifle of any kind, 
That I could keep or wear ; 

A flimsy bit of lace for my neck, 
Or a ribbon for my hair. 

Some pretty story of lovers true, 
Or a book of pleasant rhyme ; 

A flower, or a holly branch, to mark 
The blessed Christmas time. 

But to be forgotten, Charlie ! 
'T is that that brings the tear ; 



And just to think, that I have n't been 
Your wife but a single year ! 



COMING ROUND. 

'T is all right, as I knew it would be 
by and by ; 

We have kissed and made up again, 
Archie and I ; 

And that quarrel, or nonsense, what- 
ever you will, 

I think makes us love more devotedly 
still. 

The trouble was all upOn my side, you 
know ; 

I 'm exacting sometimes, rather fool- 
ishly so ; 

And let any one tell me the veriest lie 

About Archie, I 'm sure to get angry 
and cry. 

Things will go on between us again 

just the same, — 
For as he explains matters he was n't 

to blame ; 
But 'tis useless to tell you; I can't 

make you see 
How it was, quite as plainly as he has 

made me. 

You thought " I would make him come 

round when we met ! " 
You thought " there were slights I 

could never forget ! " 
Oh you did ! let me tell you, my dear, 

to your face, 
That your thinking these things 

does n't alter the case ! 

You "can tell what I said ? " I don't 

wish you to tell ! 
You know what a temper I have, very 

well ; 
That I 'm sometimes unjust to my 

friends who are best ; 
But yon 've turned against Archie the 

same as the rest ! 

" Why has n't he written ? what kept 

him so still ? " — 
His silence was sorely against his own 

will ; 
He has faults, that I own ; but he, he 

would n't deceive ; 
He was ill, or was busy, — was both, 

I believe ! 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



3^3 



Did he riirt with that lady? I s'pose I 

should say, 
Why, yes, — when she threw herself 
right in the way ; 

He was led off, was foolish, but that is 
the worst, — 

And she was to blame for it all, from 
the first. 

And he 's so glad to come back again, 

and to find 
A woman once more with a heart and 

a mind : 
For though others may please and 

amuse for an hour, 
I hold all his future — his life — in my 

power ! 

And now, if things don't go persist- 
ently wrong, 

Our destinies cannot be parted for 
long ; 

For he said he would give me his for- 
tune and name. — 

Not those words, but he told me what 
meant just the same. 

So what could I do, after all, at the 

last. 
But just ask him to pardon my doubts 

in the past : 
For though he had been wrong, I 

should still, all the same. 
Rather take it myself than let him bear 

the blame. 

And, poor fellow ! he felt so bad, I 
could not bear 

To drive him by cruelty quite to de- 
spair ; 

And so, to confess the whole truth, 
when I found 

He was willing to do so himself, /came 
round ! 



THE LAMP OX THE PRAIRIE. 

The grass lies flat beneath the wind 
That is loosed in its angry might, 

Where a man is wandering, faint and 
blind, 
On the prairie, lost at night. 

No soft, sweet light of moon or star, 
Xo sound but the tempest's tramp ; 

When suddenly he sees afar 
The flame of a friendly lamp ! 



And hope" revives his failing strength. 
He struggles on, succeeds, — 

lie nears a humble roof .it length, 
And loud for its shelter pleads. 

And a voice replies. " Whoever you be 
That knock so loud at my door, 

Come in, come in ! and bide with me 
Till this dreadful storm is o'er. 

"And no wilder, fiercer time in March 
Have 1 seen since I was born ; 

If a wolf for shelter sought my porch 
To-night, he might lie till morn." 

As he enters, there meets the stran- 
ger's gaze 
One bowed by many a year, — 
A woman, alone by the hearth's bright 
blaze, 
Tending her lamp anear. 

" Right glad will I come, 1 ' he said, "for 
the sweep 
Of the wind is keen and strong ; 
But tell me, good neighbor, why you 
keep 
Your fire ablaze so long ? 

" You dwell so far from the beaten way 
It might burn for many a night ; 

And only belated men, astray, 
Would ever see the light." 

" Aye, aye, 't is true as you have said, 
But few this way have crossed ; 

But why should not fires be lit and 
fed 
For the sake of men who are lost ? 

" There are women enough to smile 
when they come, 
Enough to watch and pray 
For those who never were lost from 
home, 
And never w r ere out of the way. 

"And hard it were if there were not 
some 
To love and welcome back 
The poor misguided souls who have 
gone 
Aside from the beaten track. 

" And if a clear and steady light 
In my home had always shone, 

My own good boy had sat to-night 
By the hearth, where I sit alone. 



324 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



" But alas ! there was no faintest spark 
The night when he should have 
come ; 
And what had he, when the pane was 
dark, 
To guide his footsteps home ? 

" But since, each night that comes and 
goes, 
My beacon fires I burn ; 
For no one knows but he lives, nor 
knows 
The time when he may return ! " 

" And a lonesome life you must have 
had, 
Good neighbor, but tell me, pray, 
How old when he went was your little 
lad? 
And how long has he been away ? " 

" 'T is thirty years, by my reckoning, 
Since he sat here last with me ; 

And he was but twenty in the spring, — 
He was only a boy, you see ! 

." And though never yet has my fire 
bee*n low, 

Nor my lamp in the window dim, 
It seems not long to be waiting so, 

Nor much to do for him ! 

" And if mine eyes may see the lad 
But in death, 't is enough of joy ; 

What mother on earth would not be 
glad 
To wait for such a boy ! 

" You think 't is long to watch at home, 
Talking with fear and doubt ! 

But long is the time that a son may 
roam 
Ere he tire his mother out ! 

" And if you had seen my good boy 

As I saw him go from home, 
With a promise to come at night, you 

would know 
That, some good night, he would 

come." 

" But suppose he perished where never 
pass 
E'en the feet of the hunter bold, 
His bones might bleach in the prairie 
grass 
Unseen till the world is old ! " 



" Aye, he might have died : you answer 
well 
And truly, friend, he might ; 
And this good old earth on which we 
dwell 
Might come to an end to-night ! 

" But I know that here in its place, in- 
stead, 

It will firm and fast remain ; 
And I know that my son, alive or dead, 

Will return to me again ! 

" So your idle fancies have no power 

To move me or appall ; 
He is likelier now to come in an hour 

Than never to come at all ! 

" And he shall find me watching yet, 

Return whenever he may ; 
My house has been in order set 

For his coming many a day. 

" You were rightly shamed if his young 
feet crossed 
That threshold stone to-night, 
For your foolish words, that he might 
be lost, 
And his bones be hid from sight ! 

" And oh, if I heard his light step 
fall, 
If I saw him at night or morn 
Far off, I should know my son from 
all 
The sons that ever were born. 

" And, hark ! there is something strange 
about, 
For my dull old blood is stirred : 
That was n't the feet of the storm with- 
out, 
Nor the voice of the storm I heard ! 

" It was but the wind ! nay, friend, be 
still, 
Do you think that the night wind's 
breath 
Through my very soul could send a 
thrill 
Like the blast of the angel, Death ? 

" 'T is my boy ! he is coming home, he 
is near 
Or I could not hear him pass ; 
For his step is as' light as the step of 
the deer 
On the velvet prairie grass. 



BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS. 



325 



M How the tempest roars ! how my 
cabin rock 
Vet I hear him through the din ; 
Lo ! he stands without the door — he 
knocks — 
1 must rise and let him in ! " 

She rose, she stood erect, serene ; 

She swiftly crossed the floor : 
And the hand of the wind, or a hand 
unseen. 

Threw open wide the door. 



Through the portal rushed the cruel 
blast, 
With a wail on its awful swell : 
As she cried, " Mybov, you have come 
at last ! " 
And prone o'er the threshold fell. 

And the stranger heard no other sound, 

And saw no form appear : 
But whoever came at the midnight 
found 

Her lamp was burning clear ! 





POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



A WEARY HEART. 

Ye winds, that talk among the pines, 
In pity whisper soft and low ; 

And from my trailing garden vines, 
Bear the faint odors as ye go ; 

Take fragrance from the orchard trees, 
From the meek violet in the dell ; 

Gather the honey that the bees 
Had left you in the lily's bell ; 

Pass tenderly as lovers pass, 

Stoop to the clover-blooms your 
wings, 
Find out the daisies in the grass, 

The sweets of all insensate things ; 

With muffled feet, o'er beds of flowers, 
Go through the valley to the height, 

Where frowning walls and lofty towers 
Shut in a weary heart to-night ; 

Go comfort her, w T ho fain would give 
Her wealth below, her hopes above, 

For the wild freedom that ye have 
To kiss the humblest flower ye love ! 



COMING HOME. 

O brothers and sisters, growing old, 

Do you all remember yet 
That home, in the shade of the rus- 
tling trees, 

Where once our household met ? 

Do you know how we used to come 
from school, 

Through the summer's pleasant heat ; 
With the yellow fennel's golden dust 

On our tired little feet ? 



And how sometimes in an idle mood 

We loitered by the way ; 
And stopped in the woods to gather 
flowers 

And in the fields to play ; 

Till warned by the deep'ning shadow's 
fall, 
That told of the coming night, 
We climbed to the top of the last, long 
hill, 
And saw our home in sight ! 

And, brothers and sisters, older now 
Than she whose life is o'er, 

Do you think of the mother's loving 
face, 
That looked from the open door ? 

Alas, for the changing things of 
time ; 
That home in the dust is low ; 
And that loving smile was hid from 
us, 
In the darkness, long ago ! 

And we have come to life's last hill, 
From which our weary eyes 

Can almost look on the home that 
shines 
Eternal in the skies. 

So, brothers and sisters, as we go, 

Still let us move as one, 
Always together keeping step, 

Till the march of life is done. 

For that mother, who waited for us 
here, 

Wearing a smile so sweet, 
Now waits on the hills of paradise 

For her children's coming feet ! 



POEMS OF TI fOl' CUT AND FEELING. 



327 



mi>in:\- SORROW. 



Have all my happiness multiplied. 
And all my suffering stricken out ; 



HE has gone at last : yet I could not If I could have known in the years 



see 
When he passed to his final rest : 
For he dropped asleep as quietly 

As the moon drops out of the west. 

And I only saw. though I kept my 
place. 

That his mortal life was o'er. 
By the look of peace across his face, 

That never was there before. 

Sorrow he surely had in the past, 
Vet he uttered never a breath ; 

His lips were sealed in life as fast 
As you see them sealed in death. 

Why he went from the world I do not 
know. 
Hiding a grief so deep ; 
But I think, if he ever had told his 
woe. 
He had found a better sleep. 

For our trouble must some time see 
the light. 

And our anguish will have way : 
And the infant, crying out in the night, 

Reveals what it hid by day. 

And just like a needful, sweet relief 
To that bursting heart it seems, 

When the little child's unspoken grief 
Runs into its pretty dreams. 

And I think, though his face looks 
hushed and mild, 
And his slumber seems so deep, 
He will sob in his grave, as a little 
child 
Keeps sobbing on in its sleep. 



A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS. 

I said, if I might go back again 
To the very hour and place of my 
birth ; 

MigHt have my life whatever I chose, 
And live it in any part of the earth : 

Put perfect* sunshine into my sky, 
Banish the shadow of sorrow and 
doubt : 



now gone. 
The best that a woman comes to 

know ; 
Could have had whatever will make 

her blest, 
Or whatever she thinks will make 

her so ; 

Have found the highest and purest 
bliss 
That the bridal-wreath and ring in- 
close ; 
And gained the one out of all the 
world. 
That my heart as well as my reason 
chose ; 

And if this had been, and I stood to- 
night 
By my children, lying asleep in their 
beds 
And could count in my prayers, for a 
rosary, 
The shining row of their golden 
heads ; 

Yea ! I said, if a miracle such as this 
Could be wrought for me, at my bid- 
ding, still 
I would choose to have my past as it 
is, 
And to let my future come as it will ! 

I would not make the path I have 
trod 
More pleasant or even, more straight 
or wide ; 
Nor change my course the breadth of 
a hair, 
This way or that way, to either side. 

My past is mine, and I take it all ; 
Its weakness — its folly, if you 
please ; 
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that, 
May have been my helps, not hin- 
drances ! 

If I saved my body from the flames 
Because that once I had burned my 
hand ; 
Or kept myself from a greater sin 
By doing a less — you will under- 
stand ; 



328 



THE POEMS. OF PHOEBE CARY. 



It was better I suffered a little pain, 

Better I sinned for a little time, 
If the smarting warned me back from 
death, 
And the sting of sin withheld from 
crime. 

Who knows his strength, by trial, will 
know 
What strength must be set against a 
sin ; 
And how temptation is overcome 
He has learned, who has felt its 
power within ! 

And who knows how a life at the last 
may show ? 
Why, look at the moon from where 
we stand ! 
Opaque, uneven, you say ; yet it shines, 
A luminous sphere, complete and 
grand ! 

So let my past stand, just as it stands, 
And let me now, as I may, grow old ; 

I am what I am, and my life for me 
Is the best — or it had not been, I 
hold. 



ANSWERED. 

I thought to find some healing clime 
For her I loved ; she found that 
shore, 

That city, whose inhabitants 

Are sick and sorrowful no more. 

I asked for human love for her ; 

The Loving knew how best to still 
The infinite yearning of a heart, 

Which but infinity could fill. 

Such sweet communion had been ours 
I prayed that it might never end ; 

My prayer is more than answered ; 
now 
I have an angel for my friend. 

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe 
The troubled anguish of her breast ; 

And, numbered with the loved and 
called, 
She entered on untroubled rest. 

Life was so fair a thing to her, 
I wept and pleaded for its stay. 



My wish was granted me, for lo ! 
She hath eternal life to-day. 



DISENCHANTED. 

The time has come, as I knew it must, 
She said, when we should part, 

But I ceased to love when I ceased to 
trust, 
And you cannot break my heart. 

Nay, I know not even if I am sad, 
And it must be for the best, 

Since you only take what I thought I 
had, 
And leave to me the rest. 

Not all the stars of my hope are set, 

Though one is in eclipse ; 
And I know there is truth in the wide 
world yet 

If it be not on your lips. 

And though I have loved you, who can 
tell 

If you ever had been so dear, 
But that my heart was prodigal 

Of its wealth, and you were near. 

I brought each rich and beautiful thing 
From my love's great treasury ; 

And I thought in myself to make a king 
With the robes of royalty. 

But you lightly laid my honors down, 
And you taught me thus to know, 

Not every head can wear the crown 
That the hands of love bestow. 

So, take whatever you can from me, 

And leave me as you will ; 
The dear romance and the poesy 

Were mine, and I have them still. 

I have them still ; and even now, 
When my fancy has her way. 

She can make a king of such as thou, 
Or a god of common clay. 



ALAS! 

Since, if you stood .by my side to-day, 
Only our hands could meet, 

What matter that half the weary world 
Lies out between our feet ; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



3^9 



That I am here by the lonesome sea, 

You by the pleasant Rhine ? — 
Our hearts were just as far apart 

If 1 held your hand in mine ! 

Therefore, with never a backward 
glance, 

I leave the past behind : 
And standing here by the sea alone, 

1 give it to the wind. 

I give it all to the cruel wind. 
And I have no word to say : 

Yet, alas ! to be as we have been. 
And to be as we are to-day ! 



MOTHER AND SON. 

Brightly for him the future smiled, 

The world was all untried ; 
He had been a boy, almost a child, 

In your household till he died. 

And you saw him, young and strong 
and fair, 

But yesterday depart : 
And you now know he is lying there 

Shot to death through the heart ! 

Alas, for the step so proud and true 
That struck on the war-path's track : 

Alas, to go, as he went from you. 
And to come, as thev brought him 
back! 

One shining curl from that bright young 
head. 

Held sacred in your home. 
Is all you will have to keep in his stead 

In the years that are to come. 

You may claim of his beauty and his 
youth 

Only this little part — 
It is not much with which to stanch 

The wound in a mother's heart ! 

It is not much with which to dry 
The bitter tears that flow : 
• much in your empty hands to lie 
As the seasons come and go. 

Yet he has not lived and died in vain, 

For proudly you may say. 
He has left a name, with never a stain 

For your tears to wash away. 



And evermore shall your life be blest, 
Though your treasures now are lew, 

Since you gave for your country's good 
the best 
God ever gave to you ! 



THEODORA. 

By that name you will not know her, 
But if words of mine can show her 
In such way that you may see 
How she doth appear to me ; 
If, attending you shall find 
The fair picture in my mind. 
You will think this title meetest, 
Gift of God, the best and sweetest. 

All her free, impulsive acting, 
Is so charming, so distracting, 
Lovers think her made, I know, 
Only for a play-fellow. 
Coral lips, concealing pearls, 
Hath she, 'twixt dark rows of curls ; 
And her words, dropt soft and slowly, 
Seem half ravishing, half holy. 

She is for a saint too human, 
Yet too saintly for a woman ; 
Something childish in her face 
Blended with maturer grace, 
Shows a nature pure and good, 
Perfected by motherhood ; — 
Eyes Madonna-like, love-laden, 
Holier than befit a maiden. 

Simple in her faith unshrinking, 
Wise as sages in her thinking ; 
Showing in her artless speech 
All she of herself can teach ; 
Hiding love and thought profound, 
In such depths as none may sound ; 
One, though known and comprehended, 
Yet with wondrous mystery blended. 

Sitting meekly and serenely. 
Sitting in a state most queenly ; 
Knowing, though dethroned, dis- 
crowned, 
That her kingdom shall be found ; 
That her Father's child must be 
Heir of immortality : 
This is still her highest merit, 
That she ruleth her own spirit. 

Thou to whom is given this treasure, 
Guard it, love it without measure ; 



330 



THE POEMS OF PHOZBE CARY. 



If forgotten it should lie 

In a weak hand carelessly, 

Thou mayst wake to miss and weep, 

That which thou didst fail to keep ; 

Crying, when the gift is taken, 

" I am desolate, forsaken ! " 



UP AND DOWN. 

The sun of a sweet summer morning 
Smiled joyously aown from the sky, 
As we climbed up the mountain to- 
gether, — 
My charming companion and I ; 
The wild birds that live in the bushes 
Sang love, without fear or disguise, 
And the flowers, with soft, blushing 
faces, 
Looked love from their wide-open 
eyes. 

In and out, through the sunshine and 
shadow, 
We went where the odors are sweet ; 
And the pathway that led from the val- 
ley 
Was pleasant and soft to our feet : 
And while we were hopefully talking — 
For our hearts and our thoughts 
seemed in tune — 
Unaware, we had climbed to the sum- 
mit, 
And the sun of the morning, to noon. 

For my genial and pleasant companion 

Was so kind and so helpful the while, 
That I felt how the path of a life-time 

Might be brightened and cheered by 
his smile ; 
And how blest, with his care and his 
guidance, 

Some true, loving woman might be, — 
Of course never hoping or wishing 

Such fortune would happen to me ! 

We spoke of life, death, truth, and 
friendship, — 
Things hoped for, below and above, 
And then sitting down at the summit, 
We talked about loving, and love ; 
And he told me the years of his life- 
time 
Till now had been barren and drear, 
In tones that were touching and ten- 
der 
As exquisite music to hear. 



And I saw in the eyes looking on me, 

A meaning that could not be hid, 
Till I blushed — oh, it makes me so 
angry, 

Even now, to remember I did ! — 
As, taking my hand, he drew nearer, 

And said, in his tenderest tone, 
'T was like the dear hand that so often 

Had lovingly lain in his own. 

And that, 't was not flattery only, 
But honest and merited praise, 

To say I resembled his sweetheart 
Sometimes in my words and my ways. 

That I had the same womanly feelings, 
My thoughts were as noble and high ; 

But that she was a trifle, say, fairer, 

And a year or two younger than I. 

Then he told me my welfare was dearer 

To him than I might understand, 
And he wished he knew any one worthy 

To claim such a prize as my hand ; 
And his darling, I surely must love her, 

Because she was charming and good, 
And because she had made him so 
happy ; 

And I said I was sure that I 
should — 

That nothing could make me so happy 

As seeing him happy ; but then 
I was wretchedly tired and stupid, 

And wished myself back in the glen. 
That the sun, so delightful at morning, 

Burned now with a merciless flame ; 
And I dreaded again to go over 

The long, weary way that we came. 

So we started to go down the mount- 
ain ; 
But the wild birds, the poor silly 
things, 
Had finished their season of courting, 
And put their heads under their 
wings ; 
And the flowers that opened at morn- 
ing, 
All blushing with joy and surprise, 
Had turned from the sun's burning- 
glances, 
And sleepily shut up their eyes. 

Everything I had thought so delight- 
ful 

Was gone, leaving scarcely a trace ; 
And even my charming companion 

Grew stupid and quite commonplace. 



OF THOUGHT AND FEELING, 
that I 



jj 



He was not the same man 
thought him — 
I can't divine why : but at once, 
The fellow, who had been so charm- 
ing 
Was changed from a dear to a dunce. 

But it any young man needs advising, 

Let me whisper a word in his 
ear : — 
Don't talk of the lady that *s absent 

Too much to the lady that 's near. 
My kindness is disinterested : 

So in speaking to me never mind ; 
But the course I advise you to follow 

1> safe, as a rule, you will find. 

You may talk about love in the ab- 
stract. 
Say the ladies are charming' and 
dear ; 
But you need not select an example, 

Xor sa\ she is there, or is here. 
When it comes to that last applica- 
tion. 
Just leave it entirely out. 
And give to the lady that 's present 
The benefit still of the doubt ! 



BE VOX D. 

When you would have sweet flowers 

to smell and hold, 
You do not seek them underneath the 

cold 
Close-knitted sod, that hides away the 
mould : 
Where in the spring-time past 
The precious seed was cast. 

Not down, but up. you turn your eager 

eyes ; 
You find in summer the fair flowery 

prize 
On the green stalk, that reaches to- 
wards the skies. 
And, bending down its top, 
Gather the fragrant crop. 

If vou would find the goal of some pure 

rill, 
That, following her unrestrained will, 
Runs laughing down the bright slope 
of the hill. 
Or, with a serious mien, 
Walks through the valley green, 



You do not seek the spot where she 

was born. 
The cavernous mountain chamber, dim, 

forlorn. 
That never saw the fair face of the 
morn, 
Where she, witli wailing sound, 
First staited from the ground ; 

But rather will you track her windings 

free, 
To where at last she rushes eagerly 
Into the white arms of her love, the 
sea. 
And hides in his embrace 
The rapture on her face ! 

If, from the branches of a neighboring 

tree, 
A bird some morn were missing sud- 

denly. 
That all the summer sang for ecstasy, 
And made your season seem 
Like a melodious dream, 

You would not search about the leaf- 
less dell, 
In places where the nestling used to 

dwell, 
To find the white walls of her broken 
shell, 
Thinking your child of air, 
Your winged joy, was there ! 

But rather, hurrying from the autumn 

Your feet would follow summer's flow- 
ery trail 
To find her spicy grove, and odorous 
vale ; 
Knowing that birds and song 
To pleasant climes belong. 

Then wherefore, when you see a soul 

set free 
From this poor seed of its mortality, 
And know you sow not that which is 
to be, 
Watch you about the tomb, 
For the immortal bloom ? 

Search for your flowers in the celestial 

grove, 
Look for your precious stream of 

human love 
In the unfathomable sea above ; 
Follow your missing bird, 
Where songs are always heard ! 



332 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



FAVORED. 

Upon her cheek such color glows, 
And in her eye such light appears, 

As comes, and only comes to those, 
Whose hearts are all untouched by 
years. 

Yet half her wealth she doth not see, 
Nor half the kindness Heaven hath 
shown, 

She never felt the poverty 

Of souls less favored than her own. 

When all is hers that life can give, 
How can she tell how drear it seems 

To those, uncomforted, who live 

In dreaming of their vanished 
dreams. 



Supplied beyond her greatest need 
With lavish hoard of love and trust, 

How shall she pity such as feed 

On hearts that years have turned to 
dust ? 

When sighs are smothered down, and 
lost 

In tenderest kisses ere they start, 
What knows she of the bitter cost 

Of hiding sorrow in the heart ? 



heart-strings for her frowning 



While fondest care each wish supplies 

And 

break, 
What can she know of one who dies 

For love she scarcely deigns to take ? 

What should she know ? No weak 
complaint, 

No cry of pain should come to her, 
If mine were all the woes I paint, 

And she could be my comforter ! 



WOMEN. 

'T is a sad truth, yet 't is a truth 
That does not need the proving : 

They give their hearts away, unasked, 
And are not loved for loving. 

Striving to win a little back, 
For all they feel they hide it ; 

And lips that tremble with their love, 
In trembling have denied it. 



Sometimes they deem the kiss and 
smile 

Is life and love's beginning ; 
While he who wins the heart away, 

Is satisfied with winning. . 



think they have not 



Sometimes they 
found 

The right one for their mating ; 
And go on till the hair is white, 

And eyes are blind with waiting. 

And if the mortal tarry still, 
They fill their lamps, undying ; 

And till the midnight wait to hear 
The " Heavenly Bridegroom " cry- 
ing. 

For while she lives, the best of them 
Is less a saint than woman ; 

And when her lips ask love divine, 
Her heart asks love that 's human ! 



THE ONLY ORNAMENT. 

Even as a child too well she knew 
Her lack of loveliness and grace ; 

So, like an unprized weed she grew, 
Grudging the meanest flower its face. 

Often with tears her sad eyes filled, 
Watching the plainest birds that went 

About her home to pair, and build 
Their humble nests in sweet content. 



No melody was in her words ; 

You thought her, as she passed 
along, 
As brown and homely as the birds 

She envied, but without their song. 

She saw, and sighed- to see how glad 
Earth makes her fair and favored 
child ; 

While all the beauty that she had 
Was in her smile, nor oft she smiled. 

So seasons passed her and were gone, 
She musing by herself apart ; 

Till the vague longing that is known 
To woman came into her heart. 

That feeling born when fancy teems 
With all that makes this life a good, 

Came to her, with its wondrous dreams, 
That bless and trouble maidenhood. 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



333 



She would have deemed it joy to sit 
In any home, or great or small, 

Could she have hoped to brighten it 
For one who thought oi her at all. 

At night, or in some secret place, 
She used to think, with tender pain, 

How infants love the mother's face. 
And know not if 't is lair or plain. 

She longed to feast her hungry eyes 
On anything her own could please ; 

To sing soft, loving lullabies 
To children King on her knees. 

And yet beyond the world she went, 
Unmissed, as if she had not been, 

Taking her only ornament, 
A meek and quiet soul within. 

None ever knew her heart was pained, 
Or that she grieved to live unsought ; 

They deemed her cold and self-con- 
tained. 
Contented in her realm of thought. 

Her patient life, when it was o'er, 
Was one that all the world approved ; 

Some marveled at, some pitied her. 
But neither man nor woman loved. 

Even little children felt the same ; 

Were shy of her. from awe or fear ; — 
I wonder if she knew they came. 

And scattered roses on her bier ! 



EQUALITY. 

Most favored lady in the land, 

I well can bear your scorn or pride ; 

For in all truest wealth, to-day, 
I stand an equal by your side ! 

No better parentage have you, — 
One is our Father, one our Friend ; 

The same inheritance awaits 

Our claiming, at the journey's end. 



No 



flight 



your thought can 



broader 
take, — 
Faith on no firmer basis rest ; 
Nor can the dreams of fancy wake 
A sweeter tumult in your breast. 

Life may to you bring every good, 
Which from a Father's hand can 
fall ; 



But if true lips have said to me. 
" I love you," I have known it all ! 



EBB-TIDE. 

WITH her white face full of agony. 

Under her dripping locks, 
I hear the wretched, restless sea, 

Complaining to the rocks. 

Helplessly in her great despair, 

She shudders on the sand, 
The bright weeds dropping from her 
hair. 

And the pale shells from her hand. 

'T is pitiful thus to see her lie, 
With her beating, heaving breast, 

Here, where she fell, when cast aside, 
Sobbing herself to rest. 

Alas, alas ! for the foolish sea, 
Why was there none to say : 

The wave that strikes on the heartless 
stone 
Must break and fall away ? 

Why could she not have known that 
this 
Would be her fate at length ; — 
For the hand, unheld, must slip at last, 



Though 



it clinsr with love's own 



strength ? 



HAPPY WOMEN. 

Impatient women, as you wait 
In cheerful homes to-night, to hear 

The sound of steps that, soon or late, 
Shall come as music to your ear ; 

Forget yourselves a little while, 
And think in pity of the pain 

Of women who will never smile 
To hear a coming step again. 

With babes that in their cradle sleep, 
Or cling to you in perfect trust ; 

Think of the mothers left to weep, 
Their babies lying in the dust. 

And when the step you wait for comes, 
And all your world is full of light, 

O women, safe in happy homes, 

Pray for all lonesome souls to-night ! 



334 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



LOSS AND GAIN. 



Life grows better every day, 
If we live in deed and truth ; 

So I am not used to grieve 

For the vanished joys of youth. 

For though early hopes may die, 
Early dreams be rudely crossed ; 

Of the past we still can keep 

Treasures more than we have lost. 

For if we but try to gain 

Life's best good, and hold it fast, 
We grow very rich in love 

Ere our mortal days are past. 

Rich in golden stores of thought, 

Hopes that give us wealth untold ; 
Rich in all sweet memories, 



That grow dearer, 



growing old. 



For when we have lived and loved, 
Tasted suffering and bliss, 

All the common things of life 
Have bgen sanctified by this. 

What my eyes behold to-day 
Of this good world is not all, 

Earth and sky are crowded full 
Of the beauties they recall. 

When I watch the sunset now, 
As its glories change and glow, 

I can see the light of suns 
That were faded long ago. 

When I look up to the stars, 

I find burning overhead 
All the stars that ever shone 

In the nights that now are dead. 

And a loving, tender word, 

Dropping from the lips of truth, 

Brings each dear remembered tone 
Echoing backward from my youth. 

When I meet a human face, 
Lit for me with light divine, 

I recall all loving eyes 

That have ever answered mine. 

Therefore, they who were my friends 
Never can be changed or old ; 

For the beauty of their youth 

Fond remembrance well can hold. 



And even they whose feet here crossed 
O'er the noiseless, calm abyss, 

To the better shore which seemed 
Once so far away from this ; 

Are to me as dwelling now 
Just across a pleasant stream, 

Over which they come and go, 
As we journey in a dream. 



A PRAYER. 

I ASK not wealth, but power to take 
And use the things I have aright, 

Not years, but wisdom that shall make 
My life a profit and delight. 

I ask not, that for me, the plan 
Of good and ill be set aside ; 

But that the common lot of man 
Be nobly borne, and glorified. 

I know I may not always keep 

My steps in places green and sweet, 

Nor find the pathway of the deep 
A path of safety for my feet ; 

But pray, that when the tempest's 
breath 

Shall fiercely sweep my way about, 
I make not shipwreck of my faith 

In the unbottomed sea of doubt ; 

And that, though it be mine to know 
How hard the stoniest pillow seems, 

Good angels still may come and go, 
About the places of my dreams. 

I do not ask for love below, 

That friends shall never be es-< 
tranged ; 
But for the power of loving, so 

My heart may keep its youth un- 



changed. 



Fate I give thee 



Youth, joy, wealth 
these ; 

Leave faith and hope till life is past ; 
And leave my heart's best impulses 

Fresh and unfailing to the last ! 



MEMORIAL. 

Toiling early, and toiling late, 

Though her name was never heard, 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



335 



To the least of her Saviour's little ones. 
She meekly ministered, — 

Publishing muni news to the poor ; 
She came to their homes unsought, 

1 her feet on the hills were beautiful, 
For the blessings which they brought. 

h a perfect life as hers, again, 
In the world we may not see : 
For her heart was full of love, and her 
hands 
Were full of charity. 

Oh woe for us ! cried the weak and 
poor. 
And the weary ones made moan : 
And the mourners went about the 
streets. 
When she went to her home alone. 

And, seeing her go from the field of 
life, 

From toiling, early and late, 
We said. What good has she gained, 
to show 
For a sacrifice so great ? 

We might have learned from the hus- 
bandman 
To wait more patiently. 
Since his seed of wheat lies under the 
snow. 
Not quickened, except it die. 

For when we raised our eyes again 
From their sorrow's wintry night. 

We saw how the deeds of good she hid 
Were pushing up to the light. 

And still the precious seed she showed. 

In patient, sorrowing trust. 
Though not for her mortal eyes to see, 

Comes blossoming out of the dust. 



THE HARMLESS LUXURY. 



Ever her thankful heart and lip 
Run over into song and prayer. 

With joys more exquisite and deep 
Than hers, she knows this <rood 
world teems. 

Yet only asks that she may keep 
The harmless luxury oi dreams. 

Thankful that, though her life has lost 
The best it hoped, the best it willed, 

Her sweetest dream has not been 
crossed, 
Or worse — but only half fulfilled. 

And that beside her still, to wile 

Her thought from sad and sober 
truth, 

Are Hope and Fancy, all the while 
Feeding her heart's eternal youth. 

And who shall say that they who close 
Their eyes to Hope and Fancy's 
beams, 
Are living truer lives than those, 

The dreamers, who believe their 
dreams 



TRIED AND TRUE. 

Oi'R life is like a march, where some 
Fall early from the ranks, and die ; 

And some, when times of conflict 
come, 
Go over to the enemy. 

And he who halts upon the way — 
Wearied in spirit and in frame — 

To call his roll of friends, will find 
How few make answer to their name ! 

And those who share our youth and 

j°y> 

Not always keep our love and trust, 
When days of awful anguish bow 
Our heads with sorrow to the dust. 



Hr:R skies, of whom I sing, are hung My friend ! in such a fearful hour, 

With sad clouds, dropping saddest When heart and spirit sank dis- 

tears : mayed. 

Yet some white days, like pearls, are From thee the words of comfort 

strung came — 

Upon the dark thread of her years. From thee, the true and tender aid. 



And as remembrance turns to slip 
Through finders fond the treasures 
rare, 



Therefore, though many another friend 
With youth and youthful pleasure 
goes, 



336 



THE POEMS OE PHCEBE CARY. 



Thou art of such as I would have 
Walk with me till life's solemn close. 

Yea, with me when earth's trials are 
done, — 
If I be found, when these shall 
cease, 
Worthy to stand with those who wear 
White raiment on the hills of peace. 



PEACE. 

O Land, of every land the best — 
O Land, whose glory shall increase ; 

Now in your whitest raiment drest 
For the great festival of peace : 

Take from your flag its fold of gloom, 
And let it float undimmed above, 

Till over all our vales shall bloom 
The sacred colors that we love. 

On mountain high, in valley low, 
Set Freedom's living fires to burn ; 

Until the midnight sky shall show 
A redder pathway than the morn. 

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, 
Your veterans from the war-path's 
track ; 
You gave your boys, untrained, un- 
tried ; 
You bring them men and heroes 
back ! 



And 



tear, 



though 



think 



you 



shed no 
must 
With sorrow of the martyred band ; 
Not even for him whose hallowed dust 
Has made our prairies holy land. 

Though by the places where they 
fell, 

The places that are sacred ground, 
Death, like a sullen sentinel, 

Paces his everlasting round. 

Yet when they set their country free 
And gave her traitors fitting doom, 

They left their last great enemy, 
Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they 

go 
Where all the paths are sweet with 
flowers ; 



They fought to give us peace, and lo ! 
They gained a better peace than 
ours. 



SUNSET. 

Away in the dim and distant past 

That little valley lies, 
Where the clouds that dimmed life's 
morning hours 

Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes. 

That peaceful spot from which I looked 

To the future — unaware 
That the heat and burden of the day 

Were meant for me to bear. 

Alas, alas ! I have borne the heat, 
To the burden learned to bow ; 

For I stand on the top of the hill of 
life, 
And I see the sunset now ! 

I stand on the top, but I look not back 
To the way behind me spread ; 

Not to the path my feet have trod, 
But the path they still must tread. 

And straight and plain before my gaze 

The certain future lies ; 
But my sun grows larger all the while 

As he travels down the skies. 

Yea, the sun of my hope grows large 
and grand ; 
For, with my childish years, 
I have left the mist that dimmed my 
sight, 
I have left my doubts and fears. 

And I have gained in hope and trust, 
Till the future looks so bright, 

That, letting go of the hand of Faith, 
I walk, at times, by sight. 

For we only feel that faith is life, 
And death is the fear of death, 

When we suffer up to the solemn 
heights 
Of a true and living faith. 

When we do not say, the dead shall 
rise 
At the resurrection's call ; 
But when we trust in the Lord, and 
know 
That we cannot die at all ! 



POEMS OF TIlOrCHT AND FEE I. IXC. 



337 



APOl OGY. 

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown. 
Nor call my words unkind ; 

For my speech was but an idle jest, 
As idle as the wind. 

I now that I see your tender heart, 
By my thoughtlessness is grieved, 

I suffer both for the pain I gave, 

And the pain that you received. 

For if ever I have a thought of you, 

That cold or cruel seems. 
I have murdered my peace, and robbed 
my sleep 

Of the joy of its happy dreams. 

Ami when I have brought a cloud of 
grief 

To your sweet face unaware, 
Its shadow covers all my sky 

With the blackness of despair. 

And if in your pillow I have set 
But one sharp thorn, alone, 

That cruel, careless deed, transplants 
A thousand to my own. 

I grieve with your grief, I die in your 
frown. 
In vour joy alone I live : 
And the blow that it pained your heart 
to feel, 
I would break my own to give ! 



THE SHADOW. 

She was so good, we thought before 
she died 
To see new glory on her path de- 
scend : 
And could not tell, till she has gone 
inside, 
Why there was darkness at her 
journey's end. 

And then we saw that she had stood, 
of late, 
So near the entrance to that holy 
place, 
That, from the Eternal City's open 
gate, 
The awful shadow fell across her 
face. 

22 



MORN INC, AM) AFTERNOON. 

Fair girl, the light of whose morning 
keeps 

The flush of its dawning glow. 
Do you ask why that faded woman 
weeps, 
Whose sun is sinking low ? 

You look to the future, on, above, 
She only looks to the past : 

You are dreaming your first sweet 
dream of love, 
And she has dreamed her last. 

You watch for feet that are yet to tread 
With yours, on a pleasant track ; 

She hears but the echoes dull and 
dread 
Of feet that come not back. 

You are passing up the flowery slope 

She left so long ago ; 
Your rainbows shine through the drops 
of hope, 

And hers through the drops of woe. 

Your night in its visions glides away 
And at morn you live them o'er ; 

From her dreams by night and dreams 
by day 
She has waked to dream no more. 

You are reaching forth with spirit 
glad 
To hopes that are still untried ; 
She is burying the hopes she had. 
That have slipped from her arms and 
died. 

You think of the good, for you in store, 
Which the future yet will send : 

While she, she knows it were well for 
her 
If she made a peaceful end ! 



LIVING BY FAITH. 

When the way we should tread runs 
evenly on, 
And light as of noonday is over it all, 
'T is strange how our feet will turn 
aside 
To paths where we needs must grope 
and fall ; 



338 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



How we suffer, knowing it all the while, 

Some phantom between ourselves 

and the light, 

That shuts in disastrous, strange 

eclipse, 

The very powers of sense and sight. 

Yet we live so, all of us, I think, 
Hiding whatever of truth we choose, 

And deceiving ourselves with a subtilty 
That never a soul but our own could 
use. 

We see the love in another's eyes, 
Where our own, reflected, is back- 
ward sent ; 
Or we hear a tone, that is not in a 
tone, 
And find a meaning that is not meant. 

We put our faith in the help of those 
Who never have been a help at all ; 

And lean on an object that all the while 
We know we are holding back from 
its fall ! 

When words seem thoughtless, or deed 
unkind, ' 
We are soothed with the kind intent 
instead ; 
And we say of the absent, silent one : 
He is faithful — but he is sick, or 
dead ! 

We have loved some dear familiar 
step. 
That once in its fall was firm and 
clear ; 
And that household music's sweetest 
sound 
Came fainter every day to our ear ; 

And then we have talked of the far- 
away — 
Of the springs to come and the years 
to be, 
When the rose should bloom in our 
dear one's cheek, 
And her feet should tread in the 
meadows free ! 

We have turned from death, to speak 
of life, 
When we knew that earthly hope was 
past ; 
Yet thinking that somehow, God would 
work 
A miracle for us, to the last. 



We have seen the bed of a cherished 
friend 
Pushing daily nearer and nearer, 
till 
It stood at the very edge of the grave, 
And we looked across and beyond it, 
still. 

Aye, more than this — we have come 
and gazed 
Down where that dear one's mortal 
part 
Was lowered forever away from our 
sight ; 
And we did not die of a broken 
heart. 

Are we blind ! nay, we know the world 
unknown 
Is all we would make the present 
seem ; 
That our Father keeps, till his own 
good time, 
The things we dream of, and more 
than we dream. 

For we shall not sleep ; but we shall 
be changed ; 
And when that change at the last is 
made, 
We shall bring realities face to face 
With our souls, and we shall not be 
afraid. 



MY LADY. 

As violets, modest, tender-eyed, 
The light of their beauty love to hide 

In deepest solitudes ; 
Even thus, to dwell unseen, she chose, 
My flower of womanhood, my rose, 

My lady of the woods ! 

Full of the deepest, truest thought, 
Doing the very things she ought, 

Stooping to all good deeds : 
Her eyes too pure to shrink from such, 
And her hands too clean to fear the 
touch 

Of the sinfulest in his needs. 

There is no line of beauty or grace 
That was not found in her pleasant 

face, 
And no heart can ever stir, 
With a sense of human wants and 

needs, 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 



339 



With promptings unto the holiest 
deeds. 
But had their birth in her. 

With never a taint of the world's un- 
truth, 
She lived from infancy to youth, 
From youth to womanhood : 
Taking no soil in the ways she trod, 
But pure as she came from the hand of 
God, 
Before His face she stood. 

My sweetest darling, my tenderest 

care ! 
The hardest thing that I have to bear 

Is to know my work is past ; 
That nothing now I can say or do 
Will bring any comfort or aid to 
you. — 
I have said and done the last. 

Yet I know I never was good enough, 
That my tenderest efforts were all too 
rough 
To help a soul so fine ; 
So the lovingest angel among them 

all, 
Whose touches fell, with the softest 
fail, 
Has pushed my hand from thine ! 



PASSING FEET. 

All these hours she sits and counts, 
As they pass her slow and sad, 

Are the headsmen cutting off 
Every flower of hope she had ; 

And the feet that come and go 
In the darkness past her door, 

If they trod upon her heart, 
Could not pain it any more. 

Friends hastening now to friends, 
Faster as the night grows late ; 

Through all places men can go, 
To.all homes where women wait. 

Some are pressing through the wood 
Where the path is faint and new ; 

Some strike out a shorter way. 
Across meadows wet with clew. 

Some, along the highway's track, 
Music to their footsteps keep ; 



Some are pushing into port, 
From their exile on the deep. 

But the hope she had at eve 

From her wretched soul has fled 

For the lamp of love she lit 

Has burned useless, and is dead. 

So the feet that come and go, 
In the darkness past her door, 

If they trod upon her heart 
Could not pain it any more ! 



MY RICHES. 

There is no comfort in the world 
But I, in thought, have known ; 

No bliss for any human heart, 
I have not dreamed my own ; 

And fancied joys may sometimes be 

More real than reality. 

I have a house in which to live, 
Pleasant, and fair, and good, 

Its hearth is crowned with warmth and 
light, 
Its board with daintiest food. 

And I, when tired with care or doubt, 

Go in and shut my sorrows out. 

I have a father, one whose care 
Goes with me where I roam ; 

A mother, waiting anxiously 
To see her child come home : 

And sisters, from whose tender eyes 

The love in mine hath sweet replies. 

I have a friend, who sees in me 

What none beside can see, 
Not faultless, but as firm and true, 

And pure, as man may be ; 
A friend, whose love is never dim, 
And I can never change to him. 

My boys are very gentle boys, 

And after they are grown, 
They 're nobler,' better, braver men 

Than any I have known ! 
And all my girls are fair and good 
From infancy to womanhood. 

So with few blessings in the world 

That men can see or name, 
Home, love, and all that love can bring 

My mind has power to claim ; 
And life can never cease to be 
A good and pleasant thing to me. 



340 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



FIGS OF THISTLES. 

As laborers set in a vineyard 

Are we set in life's field, 
To plant and to garner the harvest 

Our future shall yield. 

And never since harvests were ripened, 

Or laborers born. 
Have men gathered figs of the thistle, 

Or grapes of the thorn ! 

Even he who has faithfully scattered 

Clean seed in the ground, 
Has seen, where the green blade was 
growing, 

Tares of evil abound. 

Our labor ends not with the plant- 
ing, 

Sure watch must we keep. 
For the enemy sows in the night-time 

While husbandmen sleep. 

And sins, all unsought and unbidden, 

Take root in the mind ; 
•As the weeds grow, to choke up the 
blossoms 
Chance-sown by the wind. 

But no good crop, our hands never 
planted, 
Doth Providence send : 
Nor doth that which we planted have 
increase 
Till we water and tend. 

By our fruits, whether good, whether 
evil, 

At last are we shown ; 
And he who has nothing to gather, 

By his lack shall be known. 

And no useless creature escapeth 

His righteous reward ; 
For the tree or the soul that is barren 

Is cursed of the Lord ! 



IMPATIENCE. 

Will the mocking daylight never be 
done : 

Is the moon her hour forgetting ? 
O weary sun ! O merciless sun ! 

You have grown so slow in setting ! 



And yet, if the days could come and 

go 
As fast as I count them over, 
They would seem to me like years, I 
know, 
Till they brought me back my lover. 

Down through the valleys, down to the 
south, 
O west wind, go with fleetness, 
Kiss, with your daintiest kisses, his 
mouth. 
And bring to me alj its sweetness. 

Go when he lieth in slumber deep. 
And put your arms about him. 

And hear if he whisper my name in his 
sleep, 
And tell him, I die without him. 

O birds, that sail in the air like ships, 

To me such discord bringing, 
If you heard the sound of my lover's 
lips, 
You would be ashamed of your sing- 
ing ! 

O rose, from whose heart such a crim- 
son rain 

Up to your soft cheek gushes, 
You never could show your face again, 

If you saw my lover's blushes ! 

O hateful stars, in hateful skies. 

Can you think your light is tender, 
When you steal it all from my lover's 
eyes, 
And shine with a borrowed splen- 
dor? 

O sun, going over the western wall, 
If you stay there none will heed you ; 

For why should you rise or shine at 
all 
When he is not here to need you ? 

Will the mocking daylight never be 
done ? 

Is the moon her hour forgetting ? 
O weary sun ! O merciless sun ! 

You have grow r n so slow in setting ! 



THOU AND I. 

Strange, strange for thee and me, 
Sadly afar ; 



POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING. 341 


Thou safe beyond, above, 


He thinks as he shivers there in the 


I 'neath the star ; 


cold, 


Thou where flowers deathless spring. 


While happy children .ire safe abed. 


I where they fade : 




Thou in God's paradise, 


Is it strange if he turns about 


I 'mid time's shade .' 


With angry words, then comes to 




blows. 


Thou where each gale breathes balm. 


When his little neighbor, just sold out, 


I tempest-tossed ; 


Tossing his pennies, past him goes ? 


Thou where true joy is found. 


'• Stop ! " — some one looks at him, 


I where t is lost ; 


sweet and mild. 


Thou counting ages thine. 


And the voice that speaks is a tender 


I not the morrow ; 


one : 


Thou learning more of bliss, 


•• You should not strike such a little 


I more of sorrow. 


child. 




And you should not use such words, 


Thou in eternal peace. 


my son ! " 


I 'mid earth's strife : 




Thou where care hath no name, 


Is it his anger or his fears 


I where 't is life : 


That have hushed his voice and 


Thou without need of hope. 


stopped his arm ? 


I where 't is vain : 


" Don't tremble." these are the words 


Thou with winffs dropping light, 


he hears ; 


1 with time's chain. 


" Do you think that I would do you 




harm ? " 


Strange, strange for thee and me. 


" It is n't that," and the hand drops 


Loved, loving ever ; 


down ; 


Thou by Life's deathless fount. 


" I would n't care for kicks and 


I near Death's river : 


blows ; 


Thou winning Wisdom's love, 


But nobody ever called me son. 


I strength to trust ; 


Because I 'm nobody's child, I 


Thou 'mid the seraphim. 


s'pose." 


I in the dust ! 






men ! as ye careless pass along. 




Remember the love that has cared 




for you : 


NOBODY'S CHILI). 


And blush for the awful shame and 




wrong 


Only a newsboy, under the light 


Of a world where such a thing could 


Of the lamp-post plying his trade in 


be true ! 


vain : 


Think what the child at your knee had 


Men are too busy to stop to-night. 


been 


Hurrying home through the sleet and 


If thus on life's lonely billows tossed ; 


rain. 


And who shall bear the weight of the 


Never since dark a paper sold : 


sin. 


Where shall he sleep, or how be fed ? 


If one of these " little ones " be lost ! 








7® 




POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



AN APRIL WELCOME. 

Come up, April, through the valley, 

In your robes of beauty drest, 
Come and wake your flowery children 

From their wintry beds of rest ; 
Come and overblow them softly 

With the sweet breath of the south ; 
Drop upon them, warm and loving, 

Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 

Touch them with your rosy fingers, 

Wake them*vith your pleasant tread, 
Push away the leaf-brown covers, 

Over all their faces spread : 
Tell them how the sun is waiting 

Longer daily in the skies, 
Looking for the bright uplifting 

Of their softly-fringed eyes. 

Call the crow-foot and the crocus, 

Call the pale anemone, 
Call the violet and the daisy, 

Clothed with careful modesty ; 
Seek the low and humble blossoms, 

Of their beauties unaware, 
Let the dandelion and fennel, 

Show their shining yellow hair. 

Bid the little homely sparrows 

Chirping, in the cold and rain. 
Their impatient sweet complaining, 

Sing out from their hearts again ; 
Bid them set themselves to mating, 

Cooling love in softest words, 
Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, 

Full of little callow birds. 

Come up, April, through the valley, 
Where the fountain sleeps to-day, 

Let him, freed from icy fetters, 
Go rejoicing on his way ; 

Through the flower-enameled meadows 
Let him run his laughing race, 



Making love to all the blossoms 
That o'erlean and kiss his face. 

But not birds and blossoms only, 

Not alone the streams complain, 
Men and maidens too are calling, 

Come up, April, come again ! 
Waiting with the sweet impatience 

Of a lover for the hours 
They shall set the tender beauty 

Of thy feet among the flowers ! 



MY NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE. 

In the years that now are dead and 
gone — 
Aye, dead, but ne'er forgot — 
My neighbor's stately house looked 
down 
On the walls of my humble cot. 

I had my flowers and trees, 't is true, 
But they looked not fine and tall 

As my neighbor's flowers and trees, 
that grew 
On the other side of the wall. 

Through the autumn leaves his ripe 
fruits gleamed 
With richer tints than mine, 
And his grapes in the summer sun- 
shine seemed 
More full of precious wine. 

Through garden walk and bower I 
stray 
Unbidden now and free ; 
For my neighbor long has passed 
away, 
And his wealth has come to me. 

I pace those stately halls at last, 
But a darker shadow falls 



POEMS OF XATCRE AND HOME. 



343 



Within the house than once it cast 
On my lowly cottage walls. 

I pluck the fruit, the wine 1 waste. 

I drag through the weary hours : 
But the fruit is bitter to my taste, 

And 1 tire of the scent of flowers. 

And I 'd take my poverty instead 
And all that I have resign. 

To feel as I felt when I coveted 
The wealth that now is mine. 



THE FORTUNE IN THE DAISY. 

Of what are you dreaming, my pretty 
maid, 
With your feet in the summer clover ? 
Ah ! you need not hang your modest 
head : 
I know 't is about your lover. 

I know by the blushes on your cheek, 
Though you strive to hide the 
token : 
And I know because you will not 
speak, 
The thought that is unspoken. 

You are counting the petals, one by 
one. 
Of your dainty, dewy posies, 
To find from their number, when 't is 
done, 
The secret it discloses. 

You would see if he comes with gold 
and land — 
The lover that is to woo you ; 
Or only brings his heart and his hand, 
For your heart and your hand to sue 
you. 

Beware, beware, what you say and do, 
Fair maid, with your feet in the 
clover ; 
For the poorest man that comes to 
woo, 
May be the richest lover ! 

Since not by outward show and sign 
Can you reckon worth's true meas- 
ure. 

Who only is rich in soul and mind, 
May offer the greatest treasure. 



Ah! there never was power in gems 
alone 
To bind a brow from aching: 
Nor strength enough in a jeweled 
zone 
To hold a heart from breaking. 

Then be not caught by the sheen and 
glare 
Of worldly wealth and splendor ; 
But speak him soft, and speak him 
fair, 
Whose heart is true and tender. 

You may wear your virtues as a 
crown, 

As you walk through life serenely ; 
And grace your simple rustic gown 

With a beauty more than queenly — 

Though only one for you shall care, 
One only speak your praises ; 

And you never wear, in your shining 
hair, 
A richer flower than daisies ! 



A PICTURE. 

Her brown hair plainly put away 
Under her broad hat's rustic brim ; 

That threw across her placid brow 
Its veil-like shadow, cool and di*n : 

Her shut lips sweet as if they moved 
Only to accents good and true ; 

Her eyes down-dropt, yet bright and 
clear 
As violets shining out of dew : 

And folded close together now 

The tender hands that seemed to 
prove 

Their wondrous fitness to perform 
The works of charitable love. 

Such is her picture, but too fair 
For pencil or for pen to paint ; 

For who could show you all in one 
The child, the woman, and the saint ? 

I needs must fail ; for mortal hand 
Her full completeness may not 
trace. 

Whose meek and quiet spirit gives 
Heaven's beauty to an earthly face ! 



344 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



FAITH. 

Dear, gentle Faith ! on the sheltered 
porch 

She used to sit by the hour, 
As still and white as the whitest rose 

That graced the vines of her bower. 
She watched the motes in the sun, the 
bees, 

And the glad birds come and go ; 
The butterflies, and the children bright 

That chased them to and fro. 
She saw them happy, one and all, 

And she said that God was good ; 
Though she never had walked on the 
sweet green grass, 

And, alas ! she never would ! 

She saw the happy maid fulfill 

Her woman's destiny; 
The trusting bride on the lover's arm, 

And the babe on the mother's 
knee. 
She folded meek, her empty hands, 

And she blest them, all and each, 
While the treasure that she coveted 

Was put beyond her reach. 

" Yea, if God wills it so," she said, 
"Even so 'tis mine to live. 

What to withhold He knoweth best, 
As well as what to give ! " 

At last, for her, the very sight 

Of the good, fair earth was done. 
She could not reach the porch, nor 
see 

The grass, nor the motes in the 
sun ; 
Yet still her smile of sweet content 

Made heavenly all the place, 
As if they sat about her bed 

Who see the Father's face ; 
For to his will she bent her head, 

As bends to the rain the rose. 
"We know not what is best," she said ; 

" We only know He knows ! " 

Poor, crippled Faith ! glad, happy 
Faith ! 
Even in affliction blest ; 
For she made the cross we thought so 
hard 
A sweet support and rest. 
Wise, trusting Faith ! when she gave 
her hand 



To One we could not see, 
She told us all she was happier 

Than we could ever be. 
And we knew she thought how her feet, 
that ne'er 

On the good, green earth had trod, 
Would walk at last on the lily-beds 

That bloom in the smile of God ! 



TO AN ELF ON A BUTTERCUP. 

Cunning little fairy, 

Where the breezes blow, 
Rocking in a buttercup, 

Lightly to and fro ; 
Little folks for nothing 

Look not so demure ; 
You are planning mischief, 

I am very sure ! 

You will soon be dancing 

Down beside the spring ; 
On the velvet meadow, 

In a fairy ring ; 
Spoiling where the ewes feed 

All the tender grass ; 
And making charmed circles, 

Mortals dare not pass. 

Darkening light where lovers 

Modest sit apart, 
You will kiss the maiden, 

With your wicked art ; 
Make her think her wooer 

Woefully to blame ; 
Through her frowns and blushes 

Crying out, " For shame ! " 

Ah ! my little fairy, 

With your mystic charms, 
You have slipped the infant 

From its mother's arms ; 
And have left a changeling 

In its place at night ; 
While you turned the mortal 

To a tricksy sprite. 

Thus vou mix folks up so, 

Wicked, willful elf; 
Never one of us can know 

If he be himself : 
And sitting here and telling 

Of the tricks you do ; 
I wonder whether I am I, 

Or whether I am you ! 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



345 



PROVIDENCE. 

" Ah ! what will become of the lily, 
When the summer-time is dead ? 

Must she lav her spotless robes away. 
And hide in the dust her head ? " 

" My child, the hand that bows her 
head 

Can lift it up anew ; 
And weave another shining robe 

Of sunshine and of dew." 

" But, father, what will the sparrows 
do? 
Though they chirp so blithe and 
bold, 
When the shelter of the leaves is 
gone 
They must perish with the cold." 

" The sparrows are little things, my 
child. 

And the cold is hard to bear ; 
Yet never one of these shall fall 

Without our Father's care." 

"But how will the tender lambs be 
clothed ? 

For you know the shepherd said, 
He must take their fleeces all away, 

For us to wear instead." 

"They are warm enough to-day, my 
child, 

And so soon their fleeces grow, 
They each will have another one 

Before they feel the snow." 

" I know you will keep me, father ; 

That I shall be clothed and led : 
But suppose that I were lost from 
home, 

Oh, suppose that you were dead ! " 

•• My child, there is One who seeks 
you, 

No matter where you roam ; 
And you may not stray so far away. 

That He cannot bring you home." 

" For you have a better Father, 

In a better home above ; 
And the very hairs of your precious 
head 

Are numbered by His love ! " 



OLD PICTURES. 

Old pictures, faded long, to-night 
Come out revealed by memory's 
gleam ; 
And years of checkered dark and 
light 
Vanish behind me like a dream. 

I see the cottage, brown and low. 

The rustic porch, the roof-tree's 
shade. 
And all the place where long ago 

A group of happy children played. 

I see the brother, bravest, best, 

The prompt to act, the bold to 
speak ; 

The baby, dear and honored guest ! 
The timid sister, shy and meek. 

I see her loving face who oft 

Watched, that their slumbers might 
be sweet ; 
And his whose dear hand made so soft 

The path for all their tender feet. 

I see, far off, the woods whose 
screen 
Bounded the little world we knew; 
And near, in fairy rings of green, 
The grass that round the door-stones 
grew. 

I watch at morn the oxen come, 

And bow their meek necks to the 
yoke ; 

Or stand at noontide, patient, dumb, 
In the great shadow of the oak. 

The barn with crowded mows of hay, 
And roof upheld by golden sheaves ; 

Its rows of doves, at close of day, 
Cooing together on the eaves. 

I see, above the garden-beds, 

The bee at work with laden wing ; 

The dandelions' yellow heads 

Crowding about the orchard spring ; 

The little, sweet-voiced, homely thrush ; 
The field-lark, with her speckled 
breast ; 
The finches in the currant-bush ; 
And where the bluebirds hid their 
nest. 



346 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



I see the comely apple-trees, 

In spring, a-blush with blossoms 
sweet ; 
Or, bending with the autumn breeze, 
Shake down their ripe fruits at our 
feet. 

I see, when hurtling through the air 
The arrows of the winter fly, 

And all the frozen earth lies bare, 
A group about the hearth draw nigh, 

Of little ones that never tire 
Of stories told and told again ; 

I see the pictures in the fire, 

The firelight pictures in the pane. 

I almost feel the stir and buzz 
Of day ; the evening's holy calm ; 

Yea, all that made me what I was, 
And helped to make me what I am. 

Then lo ! it dies, as died our youth ; 

And things so strange about me 
seem, 
I know not what should be the truth, 

Nor whether I would wake or dream. 

I have not found to-day so vain, 
Nor yesterday so fair and good, 

That I would have my life again, 
And live it over if I could. 

Not every hope for me has proved 
A house on weak foundation built ; 

I have not seen the feet I loved 
Caught in the awful snares of guilt. 

But when I see the paths so hard 
Kept soft and smooth in days gone 
by; 
The lives that years have made or 
marred, 
Out of my loneliness I cry : 

Oh, for the friends that made so bright 
The days, alas ! too soon to wane ! 

Oh, but to be one hour to-night 
Set in their midst, a child again ! 



THE PLAYMATES. 

Two careless, happy children, 
Up when the east was red, 

And never tired and never still 
Till the sun had gone to bed ; 



Helping the winds in winter 

To toss the snows about ; 
Gathering the early flowers, 

When spring-time called them out ; 
Playing among the windrows ■ 

Where the mowers mowed the hay ; 
Finding the place where the. skylark 

Had hidden her nest away ; 
Treading the cool, damp furrows 

Behind the shining plough ; 
Up in the barn with the swallows, 

And sliding over the mow ; 
Pleased with the same old stories, 

Heard a thousand times ; 
Believing all the wonders 

Written in tales or rhymes ; 
Counting the hours in summer 

When even a day seemed long ; 
Counting the hours in winter 

Till the time of leaves and song. 
Thinking it took forever 

For little children to grow, 
And that seventy years of a life-time 

Never could come and go. 
Oh, I know they were happier chil- 
dren 

Than the world again may see, 
For one was my little playmate, 

And one, ah ! one was me ! 

A sad-faced man and woman, 

Leagues and leagues apart, 
Doing their work as best they may 

With weary hand and heart ; 
Shrinking from winter's tempests, 

And summer's burning heat ; 
Thinking that skies were brighter 

And flowers were once more sweet ; 
Wondering why the skylark 

So early tries his wings ; 
And if green fields are hidden 

Beyond the gate where he sings ! 
Feeling that time is slipping 

Faster and faster away ; 
That a day is but as a moment, 

And the years of life as a day ; 
Seeing the heights and places 

Others have reached and won ; . 
Sighing o'er things accomplished, 

And "things that are left undone ; 
And yet still trusting, somehow, 

In his own good time to become 
Again as little children, 

In their Heavenly Father's home ; 
One crowding memories backward, 

In the busy, restless mart, 
One pondering on them ever, 

And keeping them in her heart ; 



POEMS OE NATURE AND HOME. 



347 



Going on by their separate pathways 

To the same eternity — 
And one of these is my playmate, 

And one. alas ! is me ! 



"THE BAREFOOT BOY." 

Ah ! " Barefoot Boy ! " you have led 
me back 
O'er the waste of years profound. 
To the still, sweet spots, which memory 

Hath kept as haunted ground. 
You have led me back to the western 
hills. 
Where I played through the summer 
hours : 
And called my little playmate up, 
To stand among the flowers. 

We are hand in hand in the fields 
again. 

We are treading through the dew ! 
And not the poet's "barefoot boy," 

Nor him the artist drew, 
Is half so brave and bold and good, 

Though bright their colors glow, 
As the darling playmate that I had 

And lost, so long ago ! 

I touch the spring-time's tender grass, 

I find the daisy buds ; 
I feel the shadows deep and cool, 

In the heart of the summer woods ; 
I see the ripened autumn nuts, 

Like thick hail strew the earth ; 
I catch the fall of the winter snow, 

And the glow of the cheerful hearth ! 

But alas ! my playmate, loved and lost, 

My heart is full of tears, 
For the dead and buried hopes, that are 
more 

Than our dead and buried years : 
And I cannot see the poet's rhymes, 

Nor the lines the artist drew. 
But only the boy that held my hand, 

And led my feet through the dew ! 



WINTER FLOWERS. 

Though Nature's lonesome, leafless 
bowers, 
With winter's awful snows are 
white. 



The tender smell of leaves and Rowers 
Makes May- time in my room to- 
night : 

While some, in homeless poverty. 
Shrink moaning from the bitter 
blast ; 

What am I, that my lines should be 
In good and pleasant places cast ? 

When other souls despairing stand, 
And plead with famished lips to-day, 

Why is it that a loving hand 

Should scatter blossoms in my way ? 

O flowers, with soft and dewy eyes, 
To God my gratitude reveal ; 

Send up your incense to the skies, 
And utter, for me, what I feel ! 

O innocent roses, in your buds 

Hiding for very modesty ; 
O violets, smelling of the woods, 

Thank Him, with all your sweets for 
me ! 

And tell him, I would give this hour 
All that is mine of good beside, 

To have the pure heart of a flower, 
That has no stain of sin to hide. 



MARCH CROCUSES. 

fickle and uncertain March, 
How could you have the heart, 

To make the tender crocuses 
From their beds untimely start ? 

Those foolish, unsuspecting flowers, 

Too credulous to see 
That the sweetest promises of March 

Are not May's certainty. 

When you smiled a few short hours 
ago, 

What said your whisper, light. 
That made them lift their pretty heads 

So hopeful and so bright ? 

1 could not catch a single word, 
But I saw your light caress ; 

And heard your rough voice softened 
down 
To a lover's tenderness. 

O cruel and perfidious month, 
It makes me sick and sad, 



348 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



To think how yesterday your smile 
Made all the blossoms glad ! 

O trustful, unsuspecting flowers, 
It breaks my heart to know, 

That all your golden heads to-day 
Are underneath the snow ! 



HOMESICK. 

Comfort me with apples ! 

I am sick unto death, I am sad to de- 
spair ; 

My trouble is more than my strength 
is to bear ; 

Back again to the green hills that first 
met my sight 

I come, as a child to its mother, to- 
night ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 

Bring the ripe mellow fruit from the 
early " sweet bough," — 

(Is the tree that we used to climb grow- 
ing th^"e now ?) 

And " russets," whose cheeks are as 
freckled and dun 

As the cheeks of the children that play 
in the sun ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Gather those streaked with red, that 

we named " morning-light." 
Our good father set, when his hair had 

grown white, 
The tree, though he said when he 

planted the root, 
" The hands of another shall gather 

the fruit ; " — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Go down to the end of the orchard, and 

bring 
The fair " lady-fingers " that grew by 

the spring ; 
Pale " bell-flowers," and " pippins," all 

burnished with gold, 
Like the fruit the Hesperides guarded 

of old ; — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
Get the sweet "junietta," so loved by 
the bees, 



And the " pearmain," that grew on the 

queen of the trees ; 
And close by the brook, where they 

hang ripe and lush, 
Go and shake down the best of them 

all, — " maiden's-blush ; " — 
Comfort me with apples ! 

Comfort me with apples ! 
For lo ! I am sick ; I am sad and op- 

prest ; 
I come back to the place where, a child, 

I was blest. 
Hope is false, love is vain, for the old 

things I sigh ; 
And if these cannot comfort me, then 

I must die ! 
Comfort me with apples ! 



"FIELD PREACHING." 

I have been out to-day in field and 

wood, 
Listening to praises sweet and counsel 

good 
Such as a little child had understood, 

That, in its tender youth, 
Discerns the simple eloquence of truth. 

The modest blossoms, crowding round 

my way, 
Though they had nothing great or 

grand to say, 
Gave out their fragrance to the wind 

all day ; 
Because his loving breath, 
With soft persistence, won them back 

from death. 

And the right royal lily, putting on 
Her robes, more rich than those of 

Solomon, 
Opened her gorgeous missal in the 

sun, 
And thanked Him, soft and low, 
Whose gracious, liberal hand - had 

clothed her so. 

When wearied, on the meadow-grass I 

sank ; 
So narrow was the rill from which I 

drank, 
An infant might have stepped from 

bank to bank ; 
And the tall rushes near 
Lapping together, hid its waters clear. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND I 10 Mil. 



349 



Yel to the ocean joyously it went ; 

And rippling in the fullness of con- 
tent, 

Watered the pretty Mowers that o'er it 
leant ; 
For all the banks were spread 

With delicate rlowers that on its bounty 
fed. 

The stately maize, a fair and goodly 
sight, 

With serried spear-points bristling 
sharp and bright. 

Shook out his yellow tresses, for de- 
light. 
To all their tawny length, 

Like Samson, glorying in his lusty 
strength. 

And every little bird upon the tree, 

Ruffling his plumage bright, for ec- 
stasy. 

Sang in the wild insanity of glee : 
And seemed, in the same lays, 

Calling his mate and uttering songs of 
praise. 

The golden grasshopper did chirp and 
sir.. 

The plain bee, busy with her house- 
keeping. 

Kept humming cheerfully upon the 
wing, 
As if she understood 

That, with contentment, labor was a 
good. 

I saw each creature, in his own best 

place, 
To the Creator lift a smiling face, 
Praising continually his wondrous 

grace ; 
As if the best of all 
Life's countless blessings was to live at 

all! 

So with a book of sermons, plain and 

true, 
Hid in my heart, where I might turn 

them through. 
I went home softly, through the falling 

dew, 
Still listening, rapt and calm, 
To Nature giving out her evening 

psalm. 

While, far along the west, mine eyes 
discerned, 



Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset 
burned, 

The tree-tops, unconsumed, to rlame 
were turned ; 
And I, in that great hush, 

Talked with his angels in each burn- 
ing bush ! 



GATHERING BLACKBERRIES. 

Little Daisy smiling wakes 
From her sleep as morning breaks, 

Why, she knoweth well ; 
Yet if you should ask her, surely 
She would answer you demurely, 

That she cannot tell. 

Careful Daisy, with no sound, 
Slips her white feet to the ground, 

Saying, very low, 
She must rise and help her mother, 
And be ready, if her brother 

Needs her aid, to go ! 

Foolish Daisy, o'er her lips 
Only that poor falsehood slips, 

Truth is in her cheeks ; 
Her own words cannot deceive her, 
Her own heart will not believe her 

In a blush it speaks. 

Daisy knows that, when the heat 
Dries the clew upon the wheat, 

She will be away ; 
She and Ernest, just another 
Who, she says, is like a brother, 

Making holiday. 

For the blackberries to-day 
Will be ripe, the reapers say, 

Ripe as they can be ; 
And not wholly for the pleasure, 
But lest others .find the treasure, 

She must go and see. 

Eager Daisy, at the gate 
Meeting Ernest, scarce can wait, 

But she checks her heart ; 
And she says, her soft eyes beam- 
ing 
With an innocent, grave seeming ; 

" Is it time to start ? " 

Cunning Daisy tries to go 
Very womanly and slow, 
And to act so well 



35Q 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE GARY. 



That, if any one had seen them, 
With the dusty road between them, 
What was there to tell ? 

Happy Daisy, when they gain 
The green windings of the lane, 

Where the hedge is thick ; 
For they find, beneath its shadow, 
Wild sweet roses in the meadow, 

More than they can pick. 

Bending low, and rising higher, 
Scarlet pinks their lamps of fire 

Lightly swing about ; 
And the wind that blows them over 
Out of sight among the clover, 

Seems to blow them out ! 

Doubting Daisy, as she hies 
Toward the field of berries, cries : 

" What if they be red ? " 
Black and ripe they find them rather, 
Black and ripe enough to gather, 

As the reapers said. 

Lucky Daisy, Ernest finds 
Berries for her in the vines, 

Hidden wTiere she stands ; 
And with fearless arm he pushes 
Back the cruel, briery bushes, 

That would hurt her hands. 

He would have her hold her cup 
Just for him to fill it up, 

But away she trips ; 
Picking daintily, she lingers 
Till she dyes her pretty fingers 

Redder than her lips. 

Thoughtful Daisy, what she hears, 
What she hopes, or what she fears, 

Who of us can tell ? 
For if, going home, she carries 
Richer treasure than her berries, 

She will guard it well ! 

Puzzled Daisy does not know 
Why the sun, who rises slow, 

Hurries overhead ; 
He, that lingered at the morning, 
Drops at night with scarce a warn- 
ing 

On his cloudy bed. 

All too narrow at the start 
Seemed the path, they kept apart, 
Though the way was rough ; 



Now the path, that through the hollow 
Closely side by side they follow, 
Seemeth wide enough. 

Hopeful Daisy, will the days 
That are brightening to her gaze 

Brighter grow than this ? 
Will she, mornings without number, 
Wake up restless from her slumber, 
Just for happiness ? 

Will the friend so kind to-day, 
Always push the thorns away, 
With which earth is rife ? 
Will he be her true, true lover, 
Will he make her cup run over 
With the wine of life ? 

Blessed Daisy, will she be, 
If above mortality 

Thus she stands apart ; 
Cursed, if the hand, unsparing, 
Let the thorns fly backward, tearing 

All her bleeding heart ! 

Periled Daisy, none can know 
What the future has to show ; 

There must come what must : 
But, if blessings be forbidden, 
Let the truth awhile be hidden — 

Let her hope and trust. 

Let all women born to weep, 

Their heart's breaking — all who keep 

Hearts still young and whole, 
Pray, as fearing no denying, 
Pray with me, as for the dying, 

For this maiden's soul ! 



OUR HOMESTEAD. 

Our old brown homestead reared its 
walls 
From the way-side dust aloof, 
Where the apple-boughs could almost 
cast 
Their fruit upon its roof ; 
And the cherry-tree so near it grew 

That when awake I 've lain 
In the lonesome nights, I 've heard the 
limbs 
As they creaked against the pane ; 
And those orchard trees, oh those or- 
chard trees ! 
I 've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND NOME. 



351 



The sweet-brier, under the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad, 
And the damask' rose, by the garden- 
fence, 
Were all the flowers we had. 
I Ye looked at many a flower since 
then, 
Exotics rich and rare, 
That to other eyes were lovelier 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright, oh those roses 
bright ! 
I have twined them in my sister's 
locks. 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 

We had a well, a deep ol i well. 

Where the spring was never dry, 
And the cool drops down from the 
mossv stones 
Were falling constantly ; 
And there never was water half so sweet 

As the draught which filled my cup, 
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old 
sweep 
That my father's hand set up. 
And that deep old well, oh that deep 
old well ! 
I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 

Our homestead had an ample hearth, 
Where at night we loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice was always 
kind, 
And her smile was always sweet ; 
And there I 've sat on my father's 
knee, 
And watched his thoughtful brow, 
With my childish hand in his raven 
hair, — 
That hair is silver now ! 
But that broad hearth's light, oh that 

broad hearth's light ! 
And my father's look, and my mother's 

smile, 
They are in my heart to-night ! 



SPRING AFTER THE WAR. 

Come, loveliest season of the year, 
And every quickened pulse shall beat, 

Your footsteps in the grass to hear, 
And feel your kisses, soft and sweet ! 

Come, and bestow new happiness 
Upon the heart that hopeful thrills ; 



Sing with the lips that sing for bliss. 
And laugh with children on the hills. 

Lead dancing streams through mead- 
ows green, 
And in the deep, deserted dells 
Where poets love to walk unseen, 
Plant flowers, with all delicious 
smells. 

To humble cabins kindly go, 

And train your shady vines, to creep 
About the porches, cool and low, 

Where mothers rock their babes to 
sleep. 

But come with hushed and reverent 

tread. 
And bring your gifts, most pure and 

sweet, 
To hallowed places where our dead 
Are sleeping underneath your feet. 

There let the turf be lightly pressed, 
And be your tears that softly flow 

The sweetest, and the sacredest, 
That ever pity shed for woe ! 

Scatter your holiest drop of dew, 
Sing hymns of sacred melody ; 

And keep your choicest flowers to strew 
The places where our heroes lie. 

But most of all, go watch about 

The unknown beds of such as sleep. 

Where love can never find them out. 
Nor faithful friendship come to weep. 

Go where the ocean moans and cries, 
For those her waters hide from 
sight ; 
And where the billows heave and rise. 
Scatter the flowery foam-wreaths, 
white. 

Aye, all your dearest treasures keep ; 

We shall not miss them, but instead 
Will give them joyfully, to heap 

The holy altars of our dead ! 

The poet from his wood-paths wild, 
I know will take his sweetest flower, 

The mother, singing to her child, 
Will strip the green vines from her 
bower ; 

The poor man from his garden bed 
The unpretending blooms will spare ; 



52 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



The lover give the roses red 

He gathered for his darling's hair. 

Yea, all thy gifts we love and prize 
We ask thee reverently to bring, 

And lay them on the darkened eyes, 
That wait their everlasting spring ! 



THE BOOK OF NATURE. 

We scarce could doubt our Father's 
power, 

Though his greatness were untold 
In the sacred record made for us 

By the prophet-bards of old. 

We must have felt his watchfulness 

About us everywhere ; 
Though we had not learned, in the 
Holy Word, 

How He keeps us in his care. 

I almost think we should know his 
love, 
And dream of his pardoning grace, 
If we never nad read how the Saviour 
came, 
To die for a sinful race. 

For the sweetest parables of truth 

In our daily pathway lie, 
And we read, without interpreter, 

The writing on the sky. 

The ravens, fed when they clamor, 
teach 
The human heart to trust ; 
And the rain of goodness speaks, as it 
falls 
On the unjust and the just. 

The sunshine drops, like a leaf of gold, 
From the book of light above ; 

And the lily's missal is written full 
Of the words of a Father's love. 

So, when we turn from the sacred 
page 

Where the holy record lies, 
And its gracious plans and promises 

Are hidden from our eyes ; 

One open volume still is ours, 

To read and understand ; 
And its living characters are writ 

Bv our Father's loving hand ! 



SUGAR-MAKING. 

The crocus rose from her snowy bed 
As she felt the spring's caresses, 

And the willow from her graceful head 
Shook out her yellow tresses. 

Through the crumbling walls of his icy 
cell 

Stole the brook, a happy rover; 
And he made a noise like a silver bell 

In running under and over. 

The earth was pushing the old dead 
grass 
With lily hand from her bosom, 
And the sweet brown buds of the sas- 
safras 
Could scarcely hide the blossom. 

And breaking nature's solitude 

Came the axe strokes clearly ring- 
ing, 

For the chopper was busy in the wood 
Ere the early birds were singing. 

All day the hardy settler now 
At his tasks was toiling steady ; 

His fields were cleared, and his shin- 
ing plow 
Was set by the furrow ready. 

And down in the woods, where the sun 
appeared 
Through the naked branches break- 
ing. 
His rustic cabin had been reared 
For the time of sugar-making. 

And now, as about it he came and 
went, 
Cheerfully planning and toiling, 
His good child sat there, with eyes in- 
tent 
On the fire and the kettles boiling. 

With the beauty Nature gave as her 
dower, 

And the artless grace she taught her, 
The woods could boast no fairer flower, 

Than Rose, the settler's daughter. 

She watched the pleasant fire anear, 
And her father coming and going, 

And her thoughts were all as sweet and 
clear 
As the drops his pail o'erflowing. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME. 



353 



For she scarce had dreamed of earthly 
ills. 

And love had never found her ; 
She lived shut in by the pleasant hills 

That stood as a guard around her ; 

And she might have lived the self-same 
way 

Througn all the springs to follow, 
But tor a youth, who came one day 

Across her in the hollow. 

He did not look like a wicked man, 
And yet, when he saw that blossom, 

He said. " I will steal this Rose if I can, 
And hide it in my bosom." 

That he could be tired you had not 
guessed 

Had you seen him lightly walking ; 
But he must have been, for he stopped 
to rest 
So long that they fell to talking. 

Alas ! he was athirst, he said, 

Yet he feared there was no slaking 

The deep and quenchless thirst he had 
For a draught beyond his taking. 

Then she filled the cup and gave to 
him. 

The settler's blushing daughter, 
And he looked at her across the brim 

As he slowly drank the water. 

And he sighed as he put the cup away, 
For lips and soul were drinking ; 

But what he drew from her eyes that 
day 
Was the sweetest, to his thinking. 

I do not know if her love awoke 
Before his words awoke it ; 

If she guessed at his before he spoke, 
Or not until he spoke it. 

But howsoe'er she made it known, 
And howsoe'er he told her, 

Each unto each the heart had shown 
When the year was little older. 
2 3 



For oft he came her voice to hear, 
And to taste of the sugar-water : 

And she was a settler's wife next year 
Who had been a settler's daughter. 

And now their days are fair and fleet 
As the days of sugar weather, 

While they drink the water, clear and 
sweet, 
Of the cup of life together. 



SPRING FLOWERS. 1 

sweet and charitable friend, 
Your gift of fragrant bloom 

Has brought the spring-time and the 
woods, 
To cheer my lonesome room. 

It rests my weary, aching eyes, 
And soothes my heart and brain ; 

To see the tender green of the leaves, 
And the blossoms wet with rain. 

1 know not which I love the most, 

Nor which the comeliest shows, 
The timid, bashful violet, 
Or the royal-hearted rose : 

The pansy in her purple dress, 
The pink with cheek of red, 

Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, 
Like a bashful maid, her head. 

For I love and prize you one and all, 
From the least low bloom of spring 

To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine 
The raiment of a king. 

And when my soul considers these, 
The sweet, the grand, the gay, 

I marvel how we shall be clothed 
With fairer robes than they ; 

And almost long to sleep, and rise 
And gain that fadeless shore, 

And put immortal splendor on, 
And live, to die no more. 

1 The last poem written by Phoebe Cary. 




POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



AMY'S LOVE-LETTER. 

Turning some papers carelessly 
That were hid away in a desk 
unused, 

I came upon something yesterday 
O'er which I pondered and mused : 

A letter, faded now and dim, 

And staine # d in places, as if by tears ; 
And yet I had hardly thought of him 

Who traced its pages for years. 

Though once the happy tears made 
dim 
My eyes, and my blushing cheeks 
grew hot, 
To have but a single word from him, 
Fond or foolish, no matter what. 

If he ever quoted another's rhymes, 
Poor in themselves and common- 
place, 

I said them over a thousand times, 
As if he had lent them a grace. 

The single color that pleased his taste 
Was the only one I would have, or 
wear, 

Even in the girdle about my waist 
Or the ribbon that bound my hair. 

Then my flowers were the self-same 
kind and hue ; 

And yet how strangely one forgets — 
I cannot think which one of the two 

It was, or roses or violets ! 

But oh, the visions I knew and nursed, 
While I walked in a world unseen 
before ! 



For my world began when I knew him 
first, 
And must end when he came no 
more. 

We would have died for each other's 
sake, 
Would have given all else in the 
world below ; 
And we said and thought that our 
hearts would break 
When we parted, years ago. 

How the pain as well as the rapture 
seems 
A shadowy thing I scarce recall, 
Passed wholly out of my life and 
dreams, 
As though it had never been at all. 

And is this the end, and is here the 
grave 
Of our steadfast love and our change- 
less faith 
About which the poets sing and rave, 
Naming it strong as death ? 

At least 't is what mine has come to 
at last, 
Stript of all charm and all dis- 
guise ; 
And I wonder if, when he thinks of the 
past, 
He thinks we were foolish or wise ? 

Well, I am content, so it matters 
not ; 
And, speaking about him, some one 
said — 
I wish I could only remember what — 
But he 's either married or dead. 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



355 



DO YOU BLAME HER ? 

Ne'er lover spake in tenderer words. 

While mine were calm, unbroken ; 
Though I suffered all the pain I gave 

In the No, so firmly spoken. 

I marvel what he would think of me, 
Who called it a cruel sentence, 

If he knew I had almost learned to-day 
What it is to feel repentance. 

For it seems like a strange perversity, 
And blind beyond excusing, 

To lose the thing we could have kept, 
And after, mourn the losing. 

And this, the prize J might have won, 
Was worth a queen's obtaining ; 

And one, if far beyond my reach, 
I had sighed, perchance, for gaining. 

And I know — ah ! no one knows so 
well, 

Though my heart is far from break- 
ing — _ 
'T was a loving heart, and an honest 
hand, 
I might have had for the taking. 

And yet, though never one beside 
Has place in my thought above him, 

I only like him when he is by, 
'T is when he is gone I love him. 

Sadly of absence poets sing, 

And timid lovers fear it ; 
But an idol has been worshiped less 

Sometimes when we came too near 
it. 

And for him my fancy throws to-day 

A thousand graces o 'er him ; 
For he seems a god when he stands 
afar 
And I kneel in my thought before 
him. 

But if he were here, and knelt to me 
With a lover's fond persistence, 

Would the halo brighten to my eyes 
That crowns him now in the dis- 
tance ? 

Could I change the words I have said, 
and say 
Till one of us two shall perish, 



Forsaking others. I take this man 
Alone, to love and to cherish ? 

Alas ! whatever beside to-day 

I might dream like a fond romancer, 

I know my heart so well that I know 
1 should give him the self-same 
answer. 



SONG. 

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed 
of green, 

Where you lie in the sun's embrace ; 
And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean 

To touch your dimpled face ; 
But let your talk be sweet as it will, 

And your laughter be as gay, 
You cannot laugh as I laugh in my 
heart, 

For my lover will come to-day ! 



Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your 
mate 
That hides in the leafy grove; 
Sing clear and tell him for him you 
wait, 
And tell him of all your love ; 
But though you sing till you shake the 
buds 
And the tender leaves of May, 
My spirit thrills with a sweeter song, 
For my lover must come to-day ! 

Come up, O winds, come up from the 
south 
With eager hurrying feet, 
A^id kiss your red rose on her mouth 
In the bower where she blushes 
sweet ; 
But you cannot kiss your darling 
flower. 
Though you clasp her as you may, 
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear 
I shall hold in my arms to-day ! 



SOMEBODY'S LOVERS. 

Too meek by half was he who came 

A-wooing me one morn, 
For he thought so little of himself 

I learned to share his scorn. 

At night I had a suitor, vain 
As the vainest in the land ; 



356 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Almost he seemed to condescend 
In the offer of his hand. 

In one who pressed his suit I missed 

Courage and manly pride ; 
And how could I think of such a one 

As a leader and a guide ? 

And then there came a worshiper 
With such undoubting trust, 

That when he knelt he seemed not 
worth 
Upraising from the dust. 

The next was never in the wrong, 
Was not too smooth nor rough ; 

So faultless and so good was he, 
That that was fault enough. 

But one, the last of all who came, 

I know not how to paint ; 
No angel do I seem to him — 

He scarcely calls me saint ! 

He hath such sins and weaknesses 

As mortal man befall ; 
He hath a tfy)usand faults, and yet 

I love him with them all ! 

He never asked me yea nor nay, 
Nor knelt to me one hour ; 

But he took my heart, and holds my 
heart 
With a lover's tender power. 

And I bow, as needs I must, and say, 

In proud humility, 
Love's might is right, and I yield at 
last • 

To manhood's royalty ! 



ON THE RIVER. 

Darling, while the tender moon 
Of this soft, delicious June, 

Watches o'er thee like a lover ; 
While we journey to the sea, 
Silently, 

Let me tell my story over. 

Ah ! how clear before my sight 
Rises up that summer night, 

When I told thee first my passion ; 
And the little crimson streak, 
In thy cheek, 

Showed thy love in comeliest fashion. 



When I pleaded for reply, 
Silent lip and downcast eye, 

Turning from me both dissembled ; 
But the lily hand that shone 
In mine own, 

Like a lily softly trembled. 

And the pretty words that passed 

O'er thy coral lips at last, 
Still as precious pearls I treasure ; 

And the payment lovers give, 
While I live, 
Shall be given thee without measure. 

For I may not offer thee 

Such poor words as mine must be ; 
I perforce must speak my blisses 

In the language of mine eyes, 
Mixed with sighs, 
And the tender speech of kisses. 

Heart, encompassed in my heart ! 

Hopeful, happy as thou art, 
Will I keep and ne'er forsake thee ; 

Yea, my love shall hold thee fast, 
Till the last, 
So that heaven alone can take thee ! 

And if sorrow ever spread 
Threatening showers o'er thy head, 

All about thee will I gather, 
Whatsoever things are bright, 
That thy sight 

May be tempted earthward rather ; 

From thy pathway, for love's sake, 
Carefully my hand will take, 

Every thorn anear it growing ; 
And my lamb within my arms, 
Safe from harms, 

Will I shield when winds are blowing. 

Fairest woman, holiest saint ! 

If my words of praise could paint 
Thee, as liberal Nature made thee ; 

All who saw my picture, sweet, 
Would repeat, 
" He who painted, loved the lady ! " 

Has the wide world anything 
Thou wilt take or I may bring, 

I will treat no work disdainful ; 
Set me some true lover's task, 
Dearest, ask 

Any service, sweet or painful. 

If it please thee, over me, 
Practice petty tyranny, 



FOFMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



JO/ 



Punish me as for misdoing, 

Let me make of penitence 
Sad pretense, 
At thy feet for pardon suing. 

Darling, all our life must be, 
Thou with me, and I with thee, 

Calm as this delicious weather; 
We will keep our honeymoon 
Every June, 

Voyaging through life together. 

You and me, we used to say, 
We were two but yesterday ; 

We were as the sea and river ; 

Now our lives have all the sweetness, 
And completeness 

Of two souls made one forever ! 



IN'CONSTANCY. 

All in a dreary April day, 

When the light of my sky was 
changed to gloom, 
My first love drooped and faded away, 
While I sorrowed over its waning 
bloom. 

And I buried it, saying bitterly, 

As I watered its grave with a rain of 
tears ; 
" No flower of love will bloom for me 
Save this one, dead in my early 
years ! " 

But the May-time pushes the April out, 
And the summer of life succeeds the 
May : 
And the heaviest clouds of grief and 
doubt. 
In weeping, weep themselves away. 

And ere I had ceased to mourn above 

My cherished flower's untimely tomb. 
Right out of the grave of that buried 
love 
There sprang another and fairer 
bloom. 

And I cried, " Sleep softly, my per- 
ished rose, 
My pretty bud of an April hour ; 
While I live in the beauty that burns 
and glows, 
In the summer heart of my passion 
flower ! " 



LOVE CANNOT DIE. 

Once, when my youth was in its flower, 
I lived in an enchanted bower, 

Unvexed with fear or care. 
With one who made my world so bright, 
I thought no darkness and no blight 

Could ever enter there 

I have no friend like that to-day, 
The very bower has passed away ; 

It was not what it seemed ; 
I know in all the world of men 
There is not and there ne'er has been, 

That one of whom I dreamed ! 

And one I loved and called my friend, 
And hoped to walk with to the end, 

And on the better shore, 
Has changed so cruelly that she, 
Out of my years that are to be, 

Is lost for evermore. 

With his dear eyes in death shut fast, 
Sleeps one who loved me to the last, 

Beneath the church-yard stone ; 
Yet hath his spirit always been 
Near me to cheer the world wherein 

I seem to walk alone. 

There was a little golden head 
A few brief seasons pillowed 

Softly my own beside ; 
That pillow long has been imprest — 
That child yet sleeps upon my breast 

As though she had not died, 

And seeing that I always hold 

Mine earthly loves, in love's sweet fold, 

I thus have learned to know, 
That He, whose tenderness divine 
Surpasses every thought of mine, 

Will never let me go. 

Yea, thou, whose love, so strong, so 

great, 
Nor life nor death can separate 

From souls within thy care ; 
I know that though in heaven I dwell, 
Or go to make my bed in hell, 

Thou still art with me there ! 



HELPLESS. 

You never said a word to me 
That was cruel, under the sun ; 



358 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



It is n't the things you do, darling, 
But the things you leave undone. 

If you could but know a wish or want 
You would grant it joyfully ; 

Ah ! that is the worst of all, darling, 
That you cannot know nor see. 

For favors free alone are sweet, 
Not those that we must seek ; 

If you loved as I love you, darling, 
I would not need to speak. 

But to-day I am helpless as a child 
That must be led along ; 



Then 



hand in mine, dar- 



put your 

ling, 
And make me brave and strong. 

There 's a heavy care upon my mind, 

A trouble on my brain ; 
Now gently stroke my hair, darling, 

And take away the pain. 

I feel a weight within my breast, 
As if all had gone amiss ; 

Oh, kiss me with your lips, darling, 
And fill my heart with bliss. 

Enough ! no deeper joy than this 
For souls below is given ; 

Now take me in your arms, darling, 
And lift me up to heaven ! 



MY HELPER. 

We stood, my soul and I, 
In fearful jeopardy, 
The while the fire and tempest passed 
us by. 



For I was pushed by fate 
Into that fearful strait, 
Where 

and wait 



there was nothing but to stand 



I had no company — 
The world was dark to me : 
Whence any light might come I could 
not see. 

I lacked each common good, 
Nor raiment had nor food ; 
The earth seemed slipping from me 
where I stood. 



One who had wealth essayed ; 
Gold in my hand he laid ; 
He proffered all his treasures for my 
aid. 

Yet from his gilded roof, 
I needs must stand aloof ; 
I could not put his kindness to the 
proof. 

One who had wisdom, said, 
" By me be taught and led, 
And thou, thyself, mayst win both 
home and bread. 

Too strong and wise was he, 
Too far away from me, 
To help me in my great necessity. 

Came one, with modest guise, 
With tender, downcast eyes, 
With voice as sweet as mothers' lul- 
labies. 

Softly his words did fall, 

" My riches are so small 

I cannot give thee anything at all. 

" I cannot guide thy way, 
As wiser mortals may ; 
But all my true heart at thy feet I 
lay." 

No more earth seemed to move, 
The skies grew bright above ; 
He gave me everything, who gave me 
love ! 

I had sweet company, 
Food, raiment, luxury ; 
Had all the world — had heaven come 
down to me ! 

And now such peace is mine, 
Surely a light divine 
Must make my face with holiest joy to 
shine. 

So that my heart's delight 
Is published in men's sight ; 
And night and day I cry, and day and 
night ; 

O soul, no more alone, 
Such bliss as thine is known 
But to the angels nearest love's white 
throne ! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



359 



FAITHFUL. 

Fainter and fainter may fall on my ear 
The voice that is sweeter than music 

to hear ; 
More and more eagerly then will I list, 
That never a word or an accent be 

missed. 

Slower and slower the footstep may 

grow, 
Whose fall is the pleasantest sound 

that I know ; 
Quicker and quicker my glad heart 

shall learn 
To catch its faint echo and bless its 

return. 

Whiter and whiter may turn with each 

clay 
The locks that so sadly are changing 

to gray : 
Dearer and dearer shall these seem to 

me, 
The fewer and whiter and thinner they 

be. 

Weaker and weaker may be the light 

clasp 
Of the hand that I hold so secure in 

my grasp ; 
Stronger and stronger my own to the 

last 
Will cling to it, holding it tenderly fast. 

Darker and darker above thee may 

spread 
The clouds of a fate that is hopeless 

and dread ; 
Brighter and brighter the sun of my 

love 
Will shine, all the shadows and mists 

to remove. 

Envy and malice thy life may assail, 
Favor and fortune and friendship may 

fail ; 
But perfect and sure, and undying 

shall be 
The trust of this heart that is centred 

in thee ! 



THE LAST ACT. 

A wretched farce is our life at best, 
A weariness under the sun ; 



I am sick of the part I have to play, 
And 1 would that it were done. 

I would that all the smiles and sighs 
Of its mimic scenes could end ; 

That we could see the curtain fall 
On the last poor act, my friend ! 

Thin, faded hair, a beard of snow, 
A thoughtful, furrowed brow ; 

And this is all the world can see 
When it looks upon you now. 

And I, it almost makes me smile, 

'T is counterfeit so true, 
To see how Time hath got me up 

For the part I have to do. 

'Tis strange that we can keep in mind, 
Through all this tedious play, 

The way we needs must act and look, 
And the words that we should say. 

And I marvel if the young and gay 

Believe us sad and old ; 
If they think our pulses slow and calm, 

And cur feelings dead and cold ! 

But I cannot hide myself from you, 
Be the semblance e'er so good ; 

For under it all and through it all 
You would know the womanhood. 

And you cannot make me doubt your 
truth, 
For all your strange disguise ; 
For the soul is drawn through your 
tender voice, 
And the heart through the loving 
eyes. 

And I see, where other eyes behold 
Thin, whitened locks fall down, 

A god-like head, that proudly wears 
Its curls like a royal crown. 

And I see the smile of the tender lip, 
'Neath its manly fringe of jet, 

That won my heart, when I had a 
heart, 
And that holds and keeps it yet. 

Ah ! how shall we act this wretched 
part 
Till its weary, weary close ? 
For our souls are young, we are lovers 
yet, 
For all our shams and shows ! 



360 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Let us go and lay our masks aside 
In that cool and green retreat, 

That is softly curtained from 
world 
By the daisies fair and sweet. 



the 



And far away from this weary life, 
In the light of Love's white throne, 

We shall see, at last, as we are seen, 
And know as we are known ! 



TRUE LOVE. 

I think true love is never blind, 
But rather brings an added light ; 

An inner vision quick to find 

The beauties hid from common 
sight. 

No soul can ever clearly see 
Another's highest, noblest part ; 

Save through the sweet philosophy 
And loving wisdom of the heart. 

Your unanoirrted eyes shall fall 

On him who fills my world with 
light; . 
You do not see my friend at all, 

You see what hides him from your 
sight. 

I see the feet that fain would climb, 
You, but the steps that turn astray : 

I see the soul unharmed, sublime ; 
You, but the garment, and the clay. 

You see a mortal, weak, misled, 
Dwarfed ever by the earthly clod ; 

I see how manhood, perfected, 
May reach the stature of a god. 

Blinded I stood, as now you stand, 
Till on mine eyes, with touches 
sweet, 

Love, the deliverer, laid his hand, 
And lo ! I worship at his feet ! 



COMPLAINT. 

" Though we were parted, or though 
he had died," 

She said, " I could bear the worst, 
If he only had loved me at the last, 

As he loved me at the first. 



me ! " said the hapless 



" But woe is 
maid, 

" That ever a lover came ; 
Since he who lit in my heart the fire, 

Has failed to tend the flame. 

" Ah ! why did he pour in my life's 
poor cup 

A nectar so divine, 
If he had no power to fill it up 

With a draught as pure and fine ? 

" Why did he give me one holiday, 
Then send me back to toil ? 

Why did he set a lamp in my house, 
And leave it lacking oil ? 

"Why did he plant the rose in my 
cheeks 

When he knew it could not thrive — 
That the dew of kisses, only, keeps 

The true blush-rose alive ? 



"If he tired so soon of the song I sung 
In our love's delicious June, 

Why did he set the 
heart 
All to one blessed tune ? 



thoughts 



of my 



" Oh, if he were either true or false, 

My torment might have end : 
He hath been, for a lover, too unkind ; 



Too loving for a friend ! 



"And there is not a soul in all the 
world 

So wretched as mine must be, 
For I cannot live on his love," she said, 

" Nor die of his cruelty." 



DOVES' EYES. 

There are eyes that look through us, 
With the power to undo us, 
Eyes of the lovingest, tenderest blue, 
Clear as the heavens and as truthful 
too ; . 

But these are not my love's eyes, 
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes ! 

There are eyes half defiant, 

Half meek and compliant ; 
Black eyes, with a wondrous, witching 

charm 
To bring us good or to work us harm ; 

But these are not my love's eyes, 

For, behold he hath doves' eyes ! 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



36 1 



There are eyes to our feeling 

Forever appealing : 
K\cs of a helpless, pleading brown. 
That into OUT very souls look down : 

But these are not my love's eyes. 

For. behold, he hath doves' eyes .' 

Oh eves, dearest, sweetest. 
In beauty eompletest ; 
Whose perfect ness cannot be told in a 

word, — 
Clear and deep as the eyes of a soft, 
brooding bird ; 
These, these are my love's eyes, 
For, behold, he hath doves' eyes ! 



THE HUNTER'S WIFE. 

Mv head is sick and my heart is faint, 
I am wearied out with my own com- 
plaint. 
Answer me, come to me, then : 
For. lo ! I have pleaded by everything 
My brain could dream, or my lips could 

sing. 
I have called you lover, and called you 
king. 
And man of the race of men ! 

Come to me glad, and I will be 

id; 
But if you are weary, or if you are 
sad, 
I will be patient and meek. 
Nor word, nor smile will I seem to 

crave : 
But I '11 sit and wait, like an Eastern 

slave, 
Or wife, in the lodge of an Indian 
brave, 
In silence, till you speak. 

Come, for the power of life and death 
Han s for me on the lightest breath 

Of the lips that I believe ; 
Only pause by the cooling lake, 
Till your weary mule her thirst shall 

slake : 
'T were a fearful thing if a heart should 
break 
And you held its sweet reprieve ! 

Sleep lightly under the loving moon : 
Rise with the morning, and ride till 
noon ; 
Ride till the stars are above ! 



And as you distance the mountain 

herds. 
And shame the flight of the summer 

birds. 
Say softly over the tenderest words 
The poets have sung of love. 

You will come — you are coming — a 

thousand miles 
Away. I can see you press through the 
aisles 
Of the forest, cool and gray ; 
And my lips shall be dumb till our lips 

have met, 
For never skill of a mortal yet, 
To mortal words such music set, 
As beats in my heart to-day ! 



LOVERS AND SWEETHEARTS. 

Fair youth, too timid to lift your eyes 

To the maiden with downcast look, 
As you mingle the gold and brown of 
your curls 

Together over a book ; 
A fluttering hope that she dare not name 

Her trembling bosom heaves ; 
And your heart is thrilled, when your 
fingers meet, 

As you softly turn the leaves. 

Perchance you two will walk alone 

Next year at some sweet day's close, 
And your talk will fall to a tenderer 
tone, 

As you liken her cheek to a rose ; 
And then her face will flush and glow, 

With a hopeful, happy red : 
Outblushing all the flowers that grow 

Anear in the garden-bed. 

If you plead for hope, she may bashful 
drop 
Her head on your shoulder, low ; 
And you will be lovers and sweethearts 
then 
As youths and maidens go : 
Lovers and sweethearts, dreaming 
dreams, 
And seeing visions that please, 
With never a thought that life is made 
Of great realities ; 

That the cords of love must be strong 
as death 
Which hold and keep a heart, 



362 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Not daisy-chains, that snap in the 
breeze, 
Or break with their weight apart ; 
For the pretty colors of youth's fair 
morn 
Fade out from the noonday sky ; 
And blushing loves, in the roses born, 
Alas ! with the roses die ! 

But the love, that when youth's morn 
is past, 

Still sweet and true survives, 
Is the faith we need to lean upon 

In the crises of our lives : 
The love that shines in the eyes grown 
dim, 

In the voice that trembles speaks ; 
And sees the roses, that a year ago 

Withered and died in our cheeks ; 

That sheds a halo round us still, 

Of soft immortal light, 
When we change youth's golden coro- 
nal 

For a crown of silver white : 
A love for sickness and for health, 

For rapture and for tears ; 
That will live for us, and bear with us 

Through all our mortal years. 

And such there is ; there are lovers 
here, 
On the brink of the grave that stand, 
Who shall cross to the hills beyond, 
and walk 
Forever hand in hand ! 
Pray, youth and maid, that your end 
be theirs, 
Who are joined no more to part ; 
For death comes not to the living soul, 
Nor age to the loving heart ! 



THE ROSE. 

The sun, who smiles wherever he goes, 
Till the flowers all smile again, 

Fell in love one day with a bashful 
rose, 
That had been a bud till then. 

So he pushed back the folds of the soft 

green hood 
That covered her modest grace, 
And kissed her as only the bold sun 

could, 
Till the crimson burned in her face. 



But woe for the day when his golden 
hair 
Tangled her heart in a net ; 
And woe for the night of her dark de- 
spair, 
When her cheek with tears was wet ! 

For she loved him as only a young rose 
could : 

And he left her crushed and weak, 
Striving in vain with her faded hood 

To cover her burning cheek. 



ARCHIE. 

Oh to be back in the cool summer 

shadow 
Of that old maple-tree down in the 

meadow ; 
Watching the smiles that grew dearer 

and dearer, 
Listening to lips that drew nearer and 

nearer ; 
Oh to be back in the crimson-topped 

clover, 
Sitting again with my Archie, my lover ! 

Oh for the time when I felt his ca- 
resses 

Smoothing away from my forehead the 
tresses ; 

When up from my heart to my cheek 
went the blushes, 

As he said that my voice was as sweet 
as the thrush's ; 

As he told me, my eyes were bewitch- 
ingly jetty, 

And I answered, 't was only my love 
made them pretty ! 

Talk not of maiden reserve or of 

duty 
Or hide from my vision such visions of 

beauty ; 
Pulses above may beat calmly and 

even, — 
We have been fashioned for earth, and 

not heaven : 
Angels are perfect, I am but a woman ; 
Saints may be passionless, Archie is 

human. 

Say not that heaven hath tenderer 

blisses 
To her on whose brow drops the soft 

rain of kisses ; 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



36; 



Preach not the promise of priests or 

evangels, — 
Loved-crowned, who asks for the 

crown of the angels ? 

Yea. all that the wall of pure jasper in- 

clos 
Takes not the sweetness from sweet 

bridal roses ! 

Tell me, that when all this life shall be 
over, 

I shall still love him. and he be my 
lover : 

That mid flowers more fragrant than 
clover or heather 

My Archie and I shall be always to- 
gether. 

Loving eternally, met ne'er to sever. 

Then "you may tell me of heaven for- 
ever. 



A DAY DREAM. 

If fancy do not all deceive. 

If dreams have any truth, 
Thv love must summon back to me 

The glories of my youth ; 
For if but hope unto my thought 

Such transformation brings, 
May not fruition have the power 

To change all outward things ! 

Come, then, and look into mine eyes 

Till faith hath left no doubt ; 
So shalt thou set in them a light 

That never can go out ; 
Or lay thy hand upon my hair, 

And keep it black as night ; 
The tresses that had felt that touch 

Would shame to turn to white. 

To me it were no miracle, 

If, when I hear thee speak, 
Lilies around my neck should bloom 

And roses in my cheek ; 
Or if the joy of thy caress, 

The wonder of thy smiles, 
Smoothed all my forehead out again 

As perfect as a child's. 

My lip is trembling with such bliss 

As mortal never heard : 
My heart, exulting to itself, 

Keeps singing like a bird ; 
And while about my tasks I go 

Quietly all the day, 



I could laugh out, as children laugh, 
Upon the hills at play. 

thou, whom fancy brings to me 
With morning's earliest beams. 

Who walkest with me down the night, 
The paradise of dreams : 

1 charge thee, by the power of love, 
To answer to love's call ; 

Wake me to perfect happiness, 
Or wake me not at all ! 



THE PRIZE. 

Hope wafts my bark, and round my 
way 

Her pleasant sunshine lies ; 
For I sail with a royal argosy 

To win a royal prize. 

A maiden sits in her loveliness 
On the shore of a distant stream, 

And over the waters at her feet 
The lilies float, and dream. 

She reaches down, and draws them in, 
With a hand that hath no stain ; 

And that lily of all the lilies, her hand, 
Is the prize I go to gain. 

Her hair in a yellow flood falls down 
From her forehead low and white ; 

I would bathe in its billowy gold, and 
dream, 
In its sea of soft delight. 

Her cheek is as fair as a tender flower, 
When its blushing leaves dispart ; 

Oh, my rose of the world, my regal 
rose, 
I must wear you on my heart ! 

I must kiss your lips, so sweetly closed 
O'er their pearly treasures fair ; 

Or strike on their coral reef, and sink 
In the waves of my dark despair ! 



A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 

" Love thee ? " Thou canst not ask of 
me 

So freely as I fain would give ; 
'T is woman's great necessity 

To love so long as she shall live ; 
Therefore, if thou dost lovely prove, 
I cannot choose but give thee love ! 



364 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



* l Honor thee ? " By her reverence 
The truest woman best is known ; 

She needs must honor where she finds 
A nature loftier than her own ; 

I shall not turn from thee away, 

Unless I find my idol clay ! 

" Obey ? " Doth not the stronger will 
The weaker govern and restrain ? 

Most sweet obedience woman yields 
Where wisdom, power, manhood 
reign. 

I '11 give thee, if thou canst control, 

The meek submission of my soul ! 

Henceforward all my life shall be 
Moulded and fashioned by thine own ; 

If wisdom, power, and constancy 
In all thy words and deeds are shown ; 

Whether my vow be yea or nay, 

I '11 " love, and honor, and obey." 



IN ABSENCE. 

Watch her kindly, stars ; 
From the sweet protecting skies 
Follow her with'tender eyes, 
Look so lovingly that she 
Cannot choose but think of me : 

Watch her kindly, stars ! 

Soothe her sweetly, night : 
On her eyes, o'erwearied, press 
The tired lids with light caress ; 
Let that shadowy hand of thine 
Ever in her dreams seem mine : 

Soothe her sweetly, night ! 

Wake her gently, morn : 
Let the notes of early birds 
Seem like love's melodious words ; 
Every pleasant sound my dear, 
When she stirs from sleep should hear 

Wake her gently, morn ! 

Kiss her softly, winds : 
Softly, that she may not miss 
Any sweet, accustomed bliss ; 
On her lips, her eyes, her face, 
Till I come to take your place, 

Kiss and kiss her, winds ! 



ENCHANTMENT. 



Her cup of life with joy is full, 
And her heart is thrilling so 



That the beaker shakes in her trem- 
bling hand. 
Till its sweet drops overflow. 

All day she walks as in a trance ; 

And the thought she does not speak, 
But tries to hide from the world away, 

Burns out in her tell-tale cheek. 

And often from her dreams of night 
She wakes to consciousness, 

As the golden thread of her slumber 
breaks 
With the burden of its bliss. 

She is almost troubled with the wealth 
Of a joy so great and good, 

That she may not keep it to herself, 
Nor tell it if she would. 

'T is strange that this should come to 
one 

Who, all her life before, 
Content in her quiet household ways, 

Has asked for nothing more. 

And stranger, that he, in whom the 
power, 
The wonderful magic lay, 
That has changed her world to a para- 
dise, 
Was a man but yesterday ! 



WOOED AND WON. 

The maiden has listened to loving 
words, 
She has seen a heart like a flower 
unclose ; 
And yet she would almost hide its 
truth, 
And shut the leaves of the blushing 
rose. 

For the spell of enchantment is broken 
now, 
And all the future is seen so clear, 
That she longs for the very longing 
gone, 
For the restless pleasure of hope 
and fear. 

She stands so close to her painting 
now 
That its smallest failings are re- 
vealed, — 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



365 



Ah, that beautiful picture, that looked 
so sweet. 
By the misty distance half con- 
cealed ! 

u Alas," she says, " can it then be 
true 
That all is vanity, as they preach, — 
That the good is in striving after the 



good, 

the 1 
reach ? 



And the best is the thing we never 



" Are not the sweetest words we can 
speak : 
'It is mine, and I hold my treasure 
fast ? ' 
And the saddest wrung from the hu- 
man heart : 
' It might have been, but the time is 
past ? ' 

" I do not know, and I will not say. 
But yet of a truth it seems to me, 
I would give my certain knowledge 
back 
For my hope, with its sweet uncer- 
tain tv ! " 



LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. 

Her heart was light as human heart 
can be, 
When blushingly she listened to the 

praise 
Of him who talked of love in those 
sweet days 
Vhen first she kept a lover's company. 

That was hope's spring-time : now its 

flowers are dead, 
And she. grown tired of life before 

its close, 
Weaves melancholy stories out of 

woes, 
cross whose dismal threads her heart 

has bled. 

.*et even for such we need not quite 
despair 
Since from our wrong God can bring 

forth his right ; 
And He, though all are precious in 
his sight. 
Doth give the uncared-for his peculiar 
care. 



So, in the good life that shall follow 
this, 
He, being love, may make her love 

to be 
One golden thread, spun out eter- 
nally, 
Through her white fingers, trembling 
with their bliss. 



JEALOUSY. 

I love my love so well, I would 
There were no eyes but mine that could 
See my sweet piece of womanhood, 
And marvel of delight. 

I dread that even the sun should 

rise ; 
That bold, bright rover of the skies, 
Who dares to touch her closed eyes, 
And put her dreams to flight. 

No maid could be more kind to me, 
No truer maiden lives than she, 
But yet I die of jealousy, 

A thousand deaths in one. 

I cannot bear to see her stop, 

With her soft hand a flower to crop ; 

I envy even the clover-top 

Her dear foot treads upon. 

How cruel in my sight to bless 
Even her bird with the caress 
Of fingers that I dare not press, — 
Those lady fingers, white ; 

That nestle oft in that dear place 
Between her pillow and her face, 
And, never asking leave or grace, 
Caress her cheek at night ! 

'T is torture more than I can bear 
To see the wanton summer air 
Lift the bright tresses of her hair, 
And careless let them fall. 

The wind that through the roses slips, 
And every sparkling dew-drop sips, 
Without rebuke may kiss her lips, 
The sweetest rose of all. 

I envy, on her neck of snow, 
The white pearls hanging in a row, 
The opals on her heart that glow 
Flushed with a tender red. 



366 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



I would not, in her chamber fair, 
The curious stars should see her, where 
I, even in thought, may scarcely dare 
For reverence to tread. 

O maiden, hear and answer me 
In kindness or in cruelty ; 
Tell me to live or let me die, 
I cry, and cry again ! 

Give me to touch one golden tress, 

Give me thy white hand to caress, 

Give me thy red, red lips to press, 

And ease my jealous pain ! 



SONG. 

I see him part the careless throng, 

I catch his eager eye ; 
He hurries towards me where I wait ;- 

Beat high, my heart, beat high ! 

I feel the glow upon my cheek, 

And all my pulses thrill ; 
He sees me„passes careless by ; — 

Be still, my heart, be still ! 

He takes another hand than mine, 

It trembles for his sake ; 
I see his joy, I feel my doom ; — 

Break, oh my heart-strings, break ! 



I CANNOT TELL. 

Once, being charmed by thy smile, 
And listening to thy praises, such 

As women, hearing all the while, 

I think could never hear too much, — 

I had a pleasing fantasy 

Of souls that meet, and meeting 
blend, 
And hearing that same dream from 
thee, 
I said I loved thee, O my friend ! 

That was the flood-tide of my youth, 
And now its calm waves backward 
flow; 

I cannot tell if it were truth, 
If what I feel be love, or no. 

My days and nights pass pleasantly, 
Serenely on my seasons glide, 



And though I think and dream of 
thee, 
I dream of many things beside. 

Most eagerly thy .praise is sought, 
'T is sweet to meet, and sad to part ; 

But all my best and deepest thought 
Is hidden from thee in my heart. 

And still the while a charm or spell 
Half holds, and will not let me go ; 

'T is strange, and yet I cannot tell 
If what I feel be love, or no! 



DEAD LOVE. 

We are face to face, and between us 
here 
Is the love we thought could never 
die ; 
Why has it only lived a year ? 

Who has murdered it — you or I ? 

No matter who — the deed was done 
By one or both, and there it lies ; 

The smile from the lip forever gone, 
And darkness over the beautiful eyes. 

Our love is dead, and our hope is 
wrecked ; 
So what does it profit to talk and 
rave, 
Whether it perished by my neglect, 
Or whether your cruelty dug its 
grave ! 

Why should you say that I am to 
blame, 
Or why should I charge the sin on 
you ? 
Our work is before us all the same, 
And the guilt of it lies between us 
two. 

We have praised our love for its beauty 
and grace ; 
Now we stand here, and hardly dare 
To turn the face-cloth back from the 
face, 
And see the thing that is hidden 
there. 

Yet look ! ah, that heart has beat its 
last. 
And the beautiful life of our life is 
o'er, 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



367 



And when we have buried and left the 
past. 
We two. together, can walk no more. 

You might stretch yourself on the dead, 
and weep, 
And pray as the Prophet prayed, in 
pain ; 
But not like him could you break the 
sleep. 
And bring the soul to the clay again. 

Its head in my bosom I can lay. 

And shower my woe there, kiss on 
kiss. 
But there never was resurrection-day 

In the world for a love so dead as this 

And, since we cannot lessen the sin 

By mourning over the deed we did, 
Let us draw the winding-sheet up to 
the chin, 
Aye, up till the death-blind eyes are 
hid ! 



MY FRIEND. 

O MY friend. O my dearly beloved ! 

Do you feel, do you know, 
How the times and the seasons are 
going ; 
Are they weary and slow ? 
Does it seem to you long, in the 
heavens, 
My true, tender mate, 
Since here we were living together, 

Where dying I wait ? 
'T is three years, as we count by the 
spring-times, 
By the birth of the flowers, 
What are years, aye ! eternities even, 

To love such as ours ? 
Side by side are we still, though a 
shadow 
Between us doth fall ; 
We are parted, and yet are not parted, 

Not wholly, and all. 
For still you are round and about me, 

Almost in my reach, 
Though I miss the old pleasant com- 
munion 
Of smile and of speech. 
And I long to hear what you are seeing, 

And what you have done, 
Since the earth faded out from your 
vision, 
And the heavens begun ; 



Since you dropped off the darkening 
fillet 

Of clay from your sight, 
And opened your eyes upon glory 

Ineffably bright ! 
Though little my life has accomplished, 

My poor hands have wrought; 
I have lived what has seemed to be 
ages 
In feeling and thought, 
Since the time when our path grew so 
narrow, 
So near the unknown, 
That I turned back from following 
after, 
And you went on alone. 
For we speak of you cheerfully, al- 
ways, 
As journeying on ; 
Not as one who is dead do we name 
you ; 
We say, you are gone. 
For how could we speak of you sadly, 
We, who watched while the grace 
Of eternity's wonderful beauty 
Grew over your face ! 

Do we call the star lost that is hidden 

In the great light of morn ? 
Or fashion a shroud for the young 
child 

In the day it is born ? 
Yet behold this were wise to their folly, 

Who mourn, sore distressed, 
When a soul, that is summoned, be- 
lieving, 

Enters into its rest ! 
And for you, never any more sweetly 

Went to rest, true and deep, 
Since the first of our Lord's blessed 
martyrs, 

Having prayed, fell asleep. 

What to you was the change, the tran- 
sition, 

When looking before, 
You felt that the places which knew you 

Should know you no more ? 
Did the soul rise exultant, ecstatic ? 

Did it cry, all is well ? 
What it was to the left and the loving 

We only can tell. 
'T was as if one took from us sweet 
roses 

And we caught their last breath ; 
'T was like anything beautiful pass- 
ing. — 

It was not like death ! 



368 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



Like the flight of a bird, when still 
rising, 

And singing aloud, 
He goes towards the summer-time, 
over 

The top of the cloud. 
Now seen and now lost in the distance, 

Borne up and along, 
From the sight of the eyes that are 
watching 

On a trail of sweet song. 
As sometimes, in the midst of the 
blackness, 

A great shining spark 
Flames up from the wick of a candle, 

Blown out in the dark ; 
So while we were watching and wait- 
ing, 

'Twixt hoping and doubt, 
The light of the soul flashed upon us, 

When we thought it gone out. 
And we scarce could believe it forever 

Withdrawn from our sight, 
When the cold lifeless ashes before us 

Fell silent and white ! 
Ah ! the strength of your love was so 
wondrous, 

So great, was its sway, 
It forced back the spirit half-parted 

Away from the clay ; 
In its dread of the great separation, 

For not then did we know, 
Love can never be left, O beloved, 

And never can go ! 

As when from some beautiful case- 
ment 
Illumined at night, 
While we steadfastly gaze on its bright- 
ness, 
A hand takes the light ; 
And our eyes still transfixed by the 
splendor 
Look earnestly on, 
At the place where we lately beheld 

it, 
Even when it has gone : 
So we looked in your soul's darkening 
windows, 
Those luminous eyes, 
Till the light taken from them fell on 
us 
From out of the skies ! 
Though you wore something earthly 
about you 
That once we called you, 
A robe all transparent, and brightened 
By the soul shining through : 



Yet when you had dropped it in going, 

'T was but yours for a day, 
Safe back in the bosom of nature 

We laid it away. 
Strewing over it odorous blossoms 

Their perfume to shed, 
But you never were buried beneath 
them, 

And never were dead ! 
What we brought there and left for the 
darkness 

Forever to hide, 
Was but precious because you had 
worn it, 

And put it aside. 
As a garment might be, you had fash- 
ioned 

In exquisite taste ; 
A book which your touch had made 
sacred, 

A flower you had graced. 
For all that was yours we hold precious, 

We keep for your sake 
Every relic our saint on her journey 

Has not needed to take. 

Who that knew what your spirit, 
though fettered, 
Aspired to, adored, 
When as far as the body would loose it 

It mounted and soared ; 
What soul in the world that had loved 
you, 
Or known you aright, 
Would look for you down in the dark- 
ness, 
Not up in the light ? 
Why, the seed in the ground that we 
planted, 
And left there to die, 
Being quickened, breaks out of its 
prison, 
And grows towards the sky. 
The small fire that but slowly was kin- 
dled, 
And feebly begun, 
Gaining strength as it burns, flashes 
upward, 
And mounts to the sun. 
And could such a soul, free for ascend- 
ing, 
Could that luminous spark, 
Blown to flame by the breath of Jeho- 
vah, 
Go out in the dark ? 
Doth the bird stay behind when the 
window 
Wide open is set ? 



POEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



3^9 



Or, freed from the snare of the Eowler, 

Hasten hack to his net ? 
And you pined in the flesh, being bur- 
dened 

By its great weight of ills, 
As a slave, who has tasted wild free- 
dom, 

Still pines for the hills. 
And therefore it is that I seek you 

In full, open day. 
Where the universe stretches the far- 
thest 

From darkness away. 
And think of you always as rising 

And spurning the gloom ; 
All the width of infinity keeping 

'Twixt yourself and the tomb ! 

Sometimes in white raiment I see you, 

Treading higher and higher. 
On the great sea of glass, ever shining. 

And mingled with fire. 
With the crown and the harp of the 
victor, 

Exultant you stand ; 
And the melody drops, as if jewels 

Dropped off from your hand. 
You walk in that beautiful city, 

Adorned as a bride, 
Whose twelve gates of pearl are for- 
ever 

Opened freely and wide. 
Whose walls upon jasper foundations 

Shall firmly endure ; 
Set with topaz, and beryl, and sapphire, 

And amethyst pure. 
You are where there is not any dying, 

Any pain, any cries ; 
And God's hand has wiped softly for- 
ever, 

The tears from your eyes : 
For if spirits because of much loving 

Come nearest the throne, 
You must be with the saints and the 
children 

Our Lord calls his own ! 

Sometimes you are led in green past- 
ures, 

The sweetest and best ; 
Sometimes as a lamb in the bosom 

Of Jesus you rest. 
Where you linger the spiciest odors 

Of paradise blow, 
And under your feet drifts of blossoms 

Lie soft as the snow. 
If you follow the life-giving river, 

Or rest on its bank, 
24 



You are set round by troops of white 
lilies, 
In rank after rank. 
And the loveliest things, and the fair- 
est. 
That near you are seen 
Seem as beautiful handmaids, who 
wait on 
The step of a queen. 
For always, wherever I see you, 

Below or above, 
I think all the good which surrounds 
you 
Is born of your love. 
And the best place is that where I find 
you, 
The best thing what you do ; 
For you seem to have fashioned the 
heaven 
That was fashioned for you ! 

But as from his essence and nature 

Our God, ever blest, 
Cannot do anything for his children 

But that which is best ; 
And till He hath gathered them to 
Him, 

In the heavens above, 
Cannot joy over them as one singing, 

Nor rest in his love ; 
So you, who have drawn from his 
goodness 

Your portion of good, 
Must help where your hand can be 
helpful, 

Cannot rest if you would ; 
For you could not be happy in heaven, 

By glory shut in, 
While any soul whom you might com- 
fort 

Should suffer and sin. 
So unto the heirs of salvation 

Have you freely appeared ; 
And the earth by your sweet ministra- 
tion 

Is brightened and cheered. 

I am sure you are near to the dying ! 

For often we mark 
A smile on their faces, whose brightness 

Lights the soul through the dark ; 
Sure, that you have for man in his 
direst 

Necessity cared ; 
Preparing him then for whatever 

The Lord hath prepared. 
So, whenever you tenderly loosen 

A hand from our grasp, 



37Q 



THE POEMS OF PHGEBE CARY. 



We feel, you can hold it and keep it 

More safe in your clasp ; 
And that he, whose dear smile for a 
season 
Our love must resign, 
Gains the infinite comfort and sweet- 
ness 
Of love such as thine. 

Yea, lost mortal, immortal forever ! 

And saved evermore ! 
You revisit the world and the people, 

That saw you of yore. 
To the sorrowful house, to the death- 
room, 

The prison and tomb, 
You come, as on wings of the morning, 

To scatter the gloom. 
Wherever in desolate places 

Earth's misery abides ; 
Wherever in dark habitations 

Her cruelty hides ; 
If there the good seek for the wretched, 

And lessen their woes, 
Surely they are led on by the angels, 

And you are of those. 

In the holds of oppression, where cap- 
tives 
Sit silent and weep, 
Your face as the face of a seraph 

Has shined in their sleep : 
And your white hand away from the 
dungeon 
His free step has led, 
When the slave slipped his feet from 
the fetters, 
And the man rose instead ; 
Free, at least in his dreams and his 
visions, 
That one to behold, 
Who walked through the billows of 
fire 
With the faithful of old. 
And what are the walls of the prison, 

The rack and the rod, 
To him, who in thought and in spirit, 

Bows only to God ? 
If his doors are swung back by the 
angels 
That visit his sleep — 
If his singing ascend at the midnight, 

Triumphant and deep ; 
He is freer than they who have bound 
him, 
For his spirit may rise 
And as far as infinity reaches 
May travel the skies ! 



And who knows but the wide world of 
slumber 

Is real as it seems ? 
God giveth them sleep, his beloved, 

And in sleep giveth dreams ! 
And happy are we if such visions 

Our souls can receive ; 
If we sleep at the gateway of heaven, 

And wake and believe. 
If angels for us on that ladder 

Ascend and descend, 
Whose top reaches into the heavens, 

With God at the end ! 
If our souls can raise up for a Bethel 

E'en the great stone that lies 
At the mouth of the sepulchre, hiding 

Our dead from our eyes ! 
But alas ! if our sight be withholden, 

If faithless, bereft, 
We stoop down, looking in at the grave- 
clothes 

The Risen hath left ; 
And see not the face of the angel 

All dazzling and white, 
Who points us away from the dark- 
ness, 

And up to the light ! 
And alas ! when our Helper is pass- 
ing, 

If then we delay, 
To cast off the hindering garments 

And follow his way ! 

Yet how blindly humanity gropeth, 

While clad in this veil ; 
When we seek for the truths that are 
nearest, 

How often we fail. 
How little we learn of each other, 

How little we teach ; 
How poorly the wisest interpret 

The look and the speech ! 
Only that which in nearest communion 

We give and receive, 
That which spirit to spirit imparteth, 

Can we know and believe. 
Thus I know that you live, live for- 
ever, 

Free from death, free from harms ; 
For in dreams of the night, and at 
noonday 

Have you been in my arms ! 
And I know that, when I shall be like 
you, 

We shall meet face to face ; 
That all souls, who are joined by affec- 
tion, 

Are joined by God's grace ; 



FOEMS OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



371 



And that. O my dearly beloved. 

But the Father above. 
Who made us and joined us can part 

us : 
And He cannot for love. 



DREAMS AND REALITIES. 

O Rosamond, thou fair and good, 
And perfect flower of womanhood, 

Thou royal rose of June. 
Why didst thou droop before thy time ? 
Why wither in thy first sweet prime ? 

Why didst thou die so soon ? 

For looking backward through my tears 
On thee, and on my wasted years, 

I cannot choose but say, 
If thou hadst lived to be my guide, 
Or thou hadst lived and I had died, 

'T were better far to-day. 

O child of light, O golden head — 
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 

Upon life's lonely way — 
Why didst thou vanish from our sight ? 
Could they not spare my little light 

From heaven's unclouded day ? 

O friend so true, O friend so good — 
Thou one dream of my maidenhood, 

That gave youth all its charms — 
What had I done, or what hadst thou, 
That through this lonesome world till 
now 

We walk with empty arms ? 



And yet, had this poor soul been fed 
With all it loved and coveted — 

Had life been always fair — 
Would these dear dreams that ne'er 

depart, 
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, 

Forever tremble there ? 

If still they kept their earthly place, 
The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
Could I have learned that clear, calm 

faith 
That looks beyond the bounds of death, 

And almost longs to pass ? 

Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to be ; 

That what we plan we build ; 
That every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost, 

In heaven shall be fulfilled ; 

That even the children of the brain 
Have not been born and died in vain, 

Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
But on some brighter, better shore 
They live, embodied evermore, 

And wait for us to come. 

And when on that last day we rise, 
Caught up between the earth and skies, 

Then shall we hear our Lord 
Say, " Thou hast done with doubt and 

death ; 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 

Shall be thy faith's reward." 





RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



NEARER HOME. 

One sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 

I am nearer home to-day 
Than I ever have been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house, 
Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down ; 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer gaining the crown ! 

But lying darkly between, 

Winding down through the night, 
Is the silent, unknown stream, 

That leads at last to the light. 

Closer and closer my steps 
Come to the dread abysm : 

Closer Death to my lips 
Presses the awful chrism. 

Oh, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink ; 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think ; 

Father, perfect my trust ; 

Let my spirit feel in death, 
That her feet are firmly set 

On the rock of a living faith ! 



MANY MANSIONS. 

Her silver lamp half-filled with oil, 
Night came, to still the day's turmoil, 
And bring a respite from its toil. 



Gliding about with noiseless tread, 
Her white sheets on the ground she 

spread, 
That wearied men might go to bed. 

No watch was there for me to keep, 
Yet could I neither rest nor sleep, 
A recent loss had struck so deep. 

I felt as if Omnipotence 

Had given us no full recompense 

For all the ills of time and sense. 

So I went, wandering silently, 
Where a great river sought the sea ; 
And fashioned out the life to be. 

It was not drawn from book or creed, 
And yet, in very truth and deed, 
It answered to my greatest need. 

And satisfied myself, I thought, 

A heaven so good and perfect ought 

To give to each what all have sought. 

Near where I slowly chanced to stray, 
A youth, and old man, worn and 

gray, 
Down through the silence took their 

way ; 

And the night brought within my 

reach, 
As each made answer unto each, - 
Some portion of their earnest speech. 

The patriarch said : " Of all we know, 
Or all that we can dream below, 
Of that far land to which we go, 

" This one assurance hath expressed, 
To me, its blessedness the best — 
' He giveth his beloved rest.' " 



And the youth answered : " 

A place of inactivity, 

It cannot be a heaven to me. 



4 * Surely its joy must be to lack 
These hindrances that keep us back 
From rising on a shining track ; 

" Where each shall find his own true 

height. 
Though in our place, and in our light, 
We differ as the stars of night.'' 

I listened, till they ceased to speak : 
And my heart answered, faint and 

weak, 
Their heaven is not the heaven I seek ! 

Yet their discourse awoke again 
Some hidden memories that had lain 
Long undisturbed within my brain. 

For oft, when bowed earth's care be- 
neath, 
I had asked others of their faith 
In the life following after death ; 

And what that better world could be, 
Where, from mortality set free, 
We put on immortality. 

And each in his reply had shown 
That he had shaped and made his 

own 
By the best things which he had 

known : 

Or fashioned it to heal the woe 

Of some great sorrow, which below 

It was his hapless lot to know. 

A mother once had said to me, 
Over her dead : M My heaven will be 
An undivided family." 

One sick with mortal doubts and fears, 
With looking blindly through her tears, 
The way that she had looked for years, 

Told me : " That world could have no 

pain, 
Since there we should not wait in vain 
For feet that will not come again." 

A lover dreamed that heaven would 

be 
Life's hour of perfect ecstasy, 
Drawn out into eternity ! 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 

If it be 



373 



Men bending to their hopeless doom, 
Toiling as in a living tomb, 
Down shafts of everlasting gloom, 

Out of the dark had answered me : 
" Where there is light for us to see 
Each other's faces, heaven must be." 

An aged man, who bowed his head 
With reverence o'er the page, and read 
The words that ancient prophets said, 

Talked of a glory never dim, 
Of the veiled face of cherubim, 
And harp, and everlasting hymn ; — 

Saw golden streets and glittering tow- 
ers — 

Saw peaceful valleys, white with flow- 
ers, 

Kept never-ending Sabbath hours. 

One, who the cruel sea had crossed, 
And seen, through billows madly 

tossed, 
Great shipwrecks, where brave souls 

were lost. 

Thus of the final voyage spake : 

" Coming to heaven must be to make 

Safe port, and no more journeys take." 

And now their words of various kind 
Come back to my bewildered mind, 
And my faith staggered, faint and 
blind, 

One moment ; then this truth* seemed 

plain, 
These have not trusted God in vain ; 
To ask of Him must be to gain. 

Every imaginable good, 

We, erring, sinful, mortal, would 

Give me beloved, if we could ; 

And shall not He, whose care en- 
folds 
Our life, and all our way controls, 
Yet satisfy our longing souls ? 

Since mortal step hath never been, 
And mortal eye hath never seen, 
Past death's impenetrable screen, 

Who shall dare limit Him nbove. 

Or tell the ways in which He '11 prove 

Unto his children all his love? 



374 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Then joy through all my being spread, 
And, comforted myself, I said : 

weary world, be comforted ! 

Souls, in your quest of bliss grown 

weak — 
Souls, whose great woe no words can 

speak — 
Not always shall ye vainly seek ! 

Men whose whole lives have been a 

night, 
Shall come from darkness to the light ; 
Wanderers shall hail the land in sight. 

Old saints, and martyrs of the Lamb, 
Shall rise to sing their triumph psalm, 
And wear the crown, and bear the palm. 

And the pale mourner, with bowed 

head, 
Who, for the living lost, or dead, 
Here weeps, shall there be gently 

led, 

To feel, in that celestial place, 

The tears wiped softly from her face, 

And know love's comforting embrace. 

So shall we all, who groan in this, 
Find, in that new life's perfectness, 
Our own peculiar heaven of bliss — 

More glorious than our faith believed, 
Brighter than dreams our hope has 

weaved, 
Better than all our hearts conceived. 

Therefore will I wait patiently, 
Trusting, where all God's mansions 

be 
There hath been one prepared for me ; 

And go down calmly to death's tide, 
Knowing, when on the other side 

1 wake, I shall be satisfied. 



THE SPIRITUAL BODY. 

I have a heavenly home, 
To which my soul may come, 

And where forever safe it may abide ; 
Firmly and sure it stands, 
That house not made with hands, 

And garnished as a chamber for a 
bride ! 



'T is such as angels use, 
Such as good men would choose ; 
It hath all fair and pleasant things in 



sight 

Its walls as white and fine 

As polished ivory shine, 
And through its windows comes celes- 
tial light. 

'T is builded fair and good, 

In the similitude 
Of the most royal palace of a king ; 

And sorrow may not come 

Into that heavenly home, 
Nor pain, nor death, nor any evil thing. 

Near it that stream doth pass 
Whose waters, clear as glass, 

Make glad the city of our God with 
song ; 
Whose banks are fair as those 
Whereon stray milk-white does, 

Feeding among the lilies all day long. 

And friends who once were here 

Abide in dwellings near ; 
They went up thither on a heavenly 
road ; 

While I, though warned to go, 

Yet linger here below, 
Clinging to a most miserable abode. 

The evil blasts drive in 
Through chinks, which time and sin 
Have battered in my wretched house 
of clay ; 
Yet in so vile a place, 
Poor, unadorned with grace 
I choose to live, or rather choose to 
stay. 

And here I make my moan 
About the days now gone, 
About the souls passed on to their re- 
ward ; 
The souls that now have come 
Into a better home, 
And sit in heavenly places with their 
Lord. 

'T is strange that I should cling 
To this despised thing, 
To this poor dwelling crumbling round 
my head ; 
Making myself content 
In a low tenement 
After my joys and friends alike are 
fled! 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



375 



Yet I shall not, I know. 

Be ready hence to go, 
And dwell in my good palace, fair and 
whole, 

Till unrelenting Death 

Blows with his icy breath 
Upon my naked and unsheltered soul ! 



A GOOD DAY. 

Earth seems as peaceful and as 
bright 

As if the year that might not stay, 
Had made a sweet pause in her flight, 

To keep another Sabbath day. 

And I, as past the moments roll. 

Forgetting human tear and doubt. 
Hold better Sabbath, in my soul, 

Than that which Nature holds with- 
out. 

Help me, O Lord, if I shall see 

Times when I walk from hope apart, 

Till all my days but seem to be 

The troubled week-days of the heart. 

Help me to find, in seasons past, 

The hours that have been good or 
fair, 

And bid remembrance hold them fast, 
To keep me wholly from despair. 

Help me to look behind, before, 
To make my past and future form 

A bow of promise, meeting o'er 
The darkness of my day of storm. 



HYMN. 

How dare I in thy courts appear, 
Or raise to thee my voice ! 

I only serve thee, Lord, with fear, 
With trembling I rejoice. 

I have not all forgot thy word. 

Nor wholly gone astray ; 
I follow thee, but oh, my Lord, 

So faint, so far away ! 

That thou wilt pardon and receive 
Of sinners even the chief, 

Lord, I believe, — Lord, I believe ; 
Help thou mine unbelief ! 



DRAWING WATER. 

He had drunk from founts of pleas- 
ure, 

And his thirst returned again ; 
He had hewn out broken cisterns, 

And behold ! his work was vain. 

And he said, " Life is a desert, 
Hot, and measureless, and dry ; 

And God will not give me water, 

Though I strive, and faint, and die." 

Then he heard a voice make answer, 
" Rise and roll the stone away ; 

Sweet and precious springs lie hidden 
In thy pathway every day." 

And he said, his heart was sinful, 
Very sinful was his speech : 

"All the cooling wells I thirst for 
Are too deep for me to reach." 

But the voice cried, " Hope and labor ; 

Doubt and idleness is death ; 
Shape a clear and goodly vessel, 

With the patient hands of faith." 

So he wrought and shaped the vessel, 
Looked, and lo ! a well was there ; 

And he drew up living water, 
With a golden chain of prayer. 



TOO LATE. 

Blessings, alas ! unmerited, 
Freely as evening dews are shed 
Each day on my unworthy head. 

So that my very sins but prove 
The sinlessness of Him above 
And his unutterable love. 

And yet, as if no ear took heed, 
Not what I ask, but what I need, 
Comes down in answer, when I plead. 

So that my heart with anguish cries, 
My soul almost within me dies, 
'T wixt what God gives, and what de- 
nies. 

For howsoe'er with good it teems, 
The life accomplished never seems 
The blest fulfillment of its dreams. 



\76 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Therefore, when nearest happiness, 
I only say, The thing I miss — 
That would have perfected my bliss ! 



When harvests great are mine to 



reap, 



Too late, too late ! I sit and weep, 
My best beloved lies asleep ! 

Sometimes my griefs are hard to bear, 
Sometimes my comforts I would share, 
And the one dearest is not there. 

That which is mine to-day, I know, 
Had made a paradise below, 
Only a little year ago. 

The sunshine we then did crave, 
As having almost power to save, 
Keeps now the greenness of a grave. 

To have our dear one safe from gloom. 
We planned a fair and pleasant roomy 
And lo ! Fate builded up a tomb. 

An empty heart, with cries unstilled, 
An empty house, with love unfilled, 
These are the things our Father willed. 

And bowing to Him, as we must, 
Whose name, is Love, whose way is 

just, 
We have no refuge, but our trust. 



RETROSPECT. 

Loving One, O Bounteous One, 
What have I not received from thee, 

Throughout the seasons that have gone 
Into the past eternity ! 

For looking backward through the year, 
Along the way my feet have pressed, 

1 see sweet places everywhere, 
Sweet places, where my soul had rest. 

And, though some human hopes of mine 
Are dead, and buried from my sight, 
Yet from their graves immortal flow- 
ers 



Have 
lis 



sprung, 
:ht. 



and blossomed into 



Body, and Heart, and soul, have been 
Fed by the most convenient food ; 

My nights are peaceful all the while, 
And all my mortal days are good. 



My sorrows have not been so light, 
The chastening hand I could not 
trace ; 

Nor have my blessings been so great 
That they have hid my Father's face. 



HUMAN AND DIVINE. 

Vile, and deformed by sin I stand, 
A creature earthy of the earth ; 

Yet fashioned by God's perfect hand, 
And in his likeness at my birth. 

Here in a wretched land I roam, 
As one who had no home but this ; 

Yet am invited to become 
Partaker in a world of bliss. 

A tenement of misery, 

Of clay is this to which I cling : 
A royal palace waits for me, 

Built by the pleasure of my King ! 

My heavenly birthright I forsake, — 
An outcast, and unreconciled ; 

The manner of his love doth make 
My Father own me as his child. 

Shortened by reason of man's wrong, 
My evil days I here bemoan ; 

Yet know my life must last as long 
As his, who struck it from his own. 

Turned wholly am I from the way, — 
Lost, and eternally undone ; 

I am of those, though gone astray, 
The Father seeketh through the 
Son. 

I wander in a maze of fear, 

Hid in impenetrable night, 
Afar from God — and yet so near, 

He keeps me always in his sight. 

I am as dross, and less than dross, 
Worthless as worthlessness can be ; 

I am so precious that the cross 
Darkened the universe for me ! 

I am unfit, even from the dust, 

Master ! to kiss thy garment's hem : 

I am so dear, that thou, though just, 
Wilt not despise me nor condemn. 

Accounted am I as the least 

Of creatures valueless and mean ; 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



377 



Yet heaven's own joy shall be increased 
If e'er repentance wash me clean. 

Naked, ashamed, I hide my face. 

All seamed by guilt's defacing scars ; 
I may he clothed with righteousness 

Above the brightness of the stars. 

Lord, I do fear that I shall go 

Where death and darkness wait for 
me : 

Lord, I believe, and therefore know 
I have eternal life in thee ! 



OVER-PAYMENT. 

I took a little good seed in my hand, 
And cast it tearfully upon the land ; 
Saying, of this the fowls of heaven shall 

eat. 
Or the sun scorch it with his burning 

heat. 

Yet I, who sowed, oppressed by doubts 
and fears, 

Rejoicing gathered in the ripened ears ; 

For when the harvest turned the fields 
to gold. 

Mine vielded back to me a thousand- 
fold. 

A little child begged humbly at my 

door ; 
Small was the gift I gave her, being 

poor, 
But let my heart go with it : therefore 

we 
Were both made richer by that charity. 

My soul with grief was darkened, I was 
bowed 

Beneath the shadow of an awful cloud ; 

When one, whose sky was wholly over- 
spread, 

Came to me asking to be comforted. 

It roused me from my weak and selfish 

fears ; 
It dried my own to dry another's tears ; 
The bow, to which I pointed in his skies, 
Set all my cloud with sweetest promises. 

Once, seeing the inevitable way 

My feet must tread, through difficult 

places lay ; 
I cannot go alone. I cried, dismayed, — 
I faint, I fail, I perish, without aid ! 



Vet, when 1 looked to see if help were 

nigh, 
A creature weaker, wretcheder than I, 
One on whose head life's fiercest storms 

had beat. 
Clung to my garments, falling at my 

feet. 

I saw, I paused no more : my courage 

found, 
I stooped and raised her gently from 

the ground : 
Through every peril safe I passed at 

length. 
For she who leaned upon me gave me 

strength. 

Once, when I hid my wretched self 
from Him. 

My Father's brightness seemed with- 
drawn and dim : 

But when I lifted up mine eyes I learned 

His face to those who seek is always 
turned. 

A half-unwilling sacrifice I made : 
Ten thousand blessings on my head 

were laid : 
I asked a comforting spirit to descend : 
God made Himself my comforter and 

friend. 

I sought his mercy in a faltering 

prayer, 
And lo ! his infinite tenderness and 

care, 
Like a great sea, that hath no ebbing 

tide, 
Encompassed me with love on every 

side ! 



VAIN REPENTANCE. 

Do we not say, forgive us, Lord, 
Oft when too well we understand 

Our sorrow r is not such as thou 
Requirest at the sinner's hand ? 

Have we not sought thy face in tears, 
When our desire hath rather been 

Deliverance from the punishment, 
Than full deliverance from the sin ? 

Alas ! we mourn because we fain 
Would keep the things we should re- 
Sl'en : 



378 



And pray, because we cannot pray — 
Not my rebellious will, but thine ! 



IN EXTREMITY. 

Think on him, Lord ! we ask thy aid 
In life's most dreaded extremity : 

For evil days have come to him, 

Who in his youth remembered thee. 

Look on him, Lord ! for heart and flesh, 
Alike, must fail without thy grace : 

Part back the clouds, that he may 
see 
The brightness of his Father's face. 

Speak to him, Lord ! as thou didst 
talk 

To Adam, in the Garden's shade, 
And grant it unto him to hear 

Thy voice, and not to be afraid. 

Support him, Lord ! that he may come, 
Leaning on thee, in faith sublime, 

Up to that^.wful landmark, set 
Between eternity and time. 

And, Lord ! if it must be that we 
Shall walk with him no more below, 

Reach out of heaven thy loving hand, 
And lead him where we cannot go. 



PECCAVI. 

I have sinned, I have sinned, before 

thee, the Most Holy ! 
And I come as a penitent, bowing down 

lowly, 
With my lips making freely their awful 

admission, 
And mine eyes raining bitterest tears 

of contrition ; 
And I cry unto thee, with my mouth in 

the dust : 

O God ! be not just ! 

O God ! be not just ; but be merciful 
rather, — 

Let me see not the face of my Judge 
but my Father : 

A sinner, a culprit, I stand self-con- 
victed, 

Yet the pardoning power is thine un- 
restricted ; 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



I am weak ; thou art strong : in thy 
goodness and might, 

Let my sentence be light ! 



I have turned from all gifts which thy 

kindness supplied me, 
Because of the one which thy wisdom 

denied me ; 
I have bandaged mine eyes — yea, 

mine own hands have bound me ; 
I have made me a darkness, when light 

was around me : 
And I cry by the way-side : O Lord 

that I might 

Receive back my sight ! 

For the sake of my guilt, may my guilt 

be forgiven, 
And because mine iniquities mount 

unto heaven ! 
Let my sins, which are crimson, be 

snow in their brightness ; 
Let my sins, which are scarlet, be wool 

in their whiteness. 
I am out of the way, and my soul is 

dismayed — 

I am lost, and afraid. 

I have sinned, and against Him whose 

justice may doom me ; 
Insulted his power whose wrath can 

consume me : 
Yet, by that blest name by which angels 

adore Him — 
That name through which mortals may 

dare come before Him — 
I come, saying only, My Father above, 
My God, be thou Love ! 



CHRISTMAS. 

O time by holy prophets long fore- 
told, 
Time waited for by saints in days of 
old, 
O sweet, auspicious morn 
When Christ, the Lord, was born ! 

Again the fixed changes of the year 
Have brought that season to the world 
most dear, 
When angels, all aflame, 
Bringing good tidings came. 

Again we think of her, the meek, the 
mild, 



RELIGIOUS POEMS AND HYMNS. 379 


The dove-eyed mother of the holy 


No room in any home, in any bed, 


Child, 


No soft white pillow waiting for the 


The chosen, and the best. 


head. 


Among all women blest. 


And spare from treasures great 




To help their low estate. 


We think about the shepherds, who. 




dismayed. 


Mothers whose sons fill all your homes 


Fell on their faces, trembling and 


with light, 


afraid. 


Think of the sons who once made 


Until they heard the cry, 


homes as bright, 


Glory to God on high ! 


Now laid in sleep profound 




On some sad battle-ground ; 


And we remember those who from 




afar 


And into darkened dwellings come with 


Followed the changing glory of the star 


cheer, 


To where its light was shed 


With pitying hand to wipe the falling 


Upon the sacred head : 


tear, 




Comfort for Christ's dear sake 


And how each trembling, awe-struck 


To childless mothers take ! 


worshiper 




Brought gifts of gold and frankincense 


Children whose lives are blest with 


and myrrh. 


love untold, 


And spread them on the ground 


Whose gifts are greater than your arms 


In reverence profound. 


can hold, 




Think of the child who stands 


We think what joy it would have been 


To-day with empty hands ! 


to share 




In their high privilege who came to 


Go fill them up, and you will also fill 


beat- 


Their empty hearts, that lie so cold 


Sweet spice and costly gem 


and still, 


To Christ, in Bethlehem. 


And brighten longing eyes 




With grateful, glad surprise. 


And in that thought we half forget that 




He 


May all who have, at this blest season 


Is wheresoe'er we seek Him earnestly ; 


seek 


Still filling every place 


His precious little ones, the poor and 


With sweet, abounding grace. 


weak, 




In joyful, sweet accord, 


And though in garments of the flesh, 


Thus lending to the Lord. 


as then, 




Xo more He walks this sinful earth 


Yea, Crucified Redeemer, who didst 


with men, 


give 


The poor, to Him most dear, 


Thy "toil, thy tears, thy life, that we 


Are always with us here. 


might live, 




Thy Spirit grant, that we 


And He saith, Inasmuch as ye shall 


May live one day for thee ! 


take 




Good to these little ones for my dear 




sake, 


COMPENSATION. 


In that same measure ye 




Have brought it unto me ! 


Crooked and dwarfed the tree must 




stay, 


Therefore, men in prosperous homes 


Nor lift its green head to the day, 


who live, 


Till useless growths are lopped away, 


Having all blessings earthly wealth can 




give, 


And thus doth human nature do ; 


Remember their sad doom 


Till it hath careful pruning too, 


For whom there is no room — 


It cannot grow up straight and true. 



;So 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



For, but for chastenings severe, 
No soul could ever tell how near 
God comes, to whom He loveth, here. 

Without life's ills, we could not feel 
The blessed change from woe to weal ; 
Only the wounded limb can heal. 

The sick and suffering learn below, 
That which the whole can never know, 
Of the soft hand that soothes their woe. 

And never man is blest as he, 
Who, freed from some infirmity, 
Rejoices in his liberty. 

He sees, with new and glad surprise, 
The world that round about him lies, 
Who slips the bandage from his eyes ; 

And comes from where he long hath 

lain, 
Comes from the darkness and the pain, 
Out into God's full light again. 

They only know who wait in fear 
The music 6f a footstep near, 
Falling upon the listening ear. 

And life's great depths are soonest 

stirred 
In him who hath but seldom heard 
The magic of a loving word. 

Joy after grief is more complete ; 
And kisses never fall so sweet 
As when long-parted lovers meet. 

One who is little used to such, 
Surely can tell us best how much 
There is in a kind smile or touch. 

'Tis like the spring wind from the 

south, 
Or water to the fevered mouth, 
Or sweet rain falling after drouth. 

By him the deepest rest is won 
Who toils beneath the noonday sun 
Faithful until his work is done. 

And watchers through the weary night 
Have learned how pleasantly the light 
Of morning breaks upon the sight. 

Perchance the jewel seems most fair 
To him whose patient toil and care 
Has brought it to the upper air. 



And other lips can never taste 

A draught like that he finds at last 

Who seeks it in the burning waste. 

When to the mother's arms is lent, 
That sweet reward for suffering sent 
To her, from the Omnipotent, "- 

I think its helpless, pleading cry 
Touches her heart more tenderly, 
Because of her past agony. 

We learn at last how good and brave 
Was the dear friend we could not save, 
When he has slipped into the grave. 

And after he has come to hide 

Our lambs upon the other side, 

We know our Shepherd and our Guide. 

And thus, by ways not understood", 
Out of each dark vicissitude, 
God brings us compensating good. 



For Faith is perfected by fears, 
And souls renew their youth with years, 
And Love looks into heaven 
tears. 



through 



RECONCILED. 

O years, gone down into the past ; 

What pleasant memories come to me, 
Of your untroubled days of peace, 

And hours almost of ecstasy ! 

Yet would I have no moon stand still 
Where life's most pleasant valleys 
lie ; 

Nor wheel the planet of the day 

Back on his pathway through the sky. 

For though, when youthful pleasures 
died, 

My youth itself went with them, too ; 
To-day, aye ! even this very hour, 

Is the best time I ever knew. . 

Not that my Father gives to me 

More blessings than in days gone 

by; 
Dropping in my uplifted hands 
All things for which I blindly cry : 



But that his plans and purposes 
re grc 
dim ; 



Have grown to me less strange and 



KE/./OlOrS /'OEMS AXD HYMNS. 



381 



And where I cannot understand, 
I trust the issues unto Him. 

And, spite oi many broken dreams. 

This have I truly learned to say, — 
The prayers I thought unanswered 
once, 
Were answered in God's own best 
way. 

And though some dearly cherished 
hopes 

Perished untimely ere their birth, 
Yet have I been beloved and blessed 
Beyond the measure of my worth. 

And sometimes in my hours of grief, 
For moments I have come to stand 

Where in the sorrows on me laid, 
I felt a loving Father's hand. 

And I have learned, the weakest 
ones 

Are kept securest from life's harms ; 
And that the tender lambs alone 

Are carried in the Shepherd's arms. 

And. sitting by the way-side, blind, 
He is the nearest to the light, 

Who crieth out most earnestly. 

•• Lord, that I might receive my 
sight ! *' 

O feet, grown weary as ye walk, 

Where down life's hill my pathway 
lies, 
What care I, while my soul can 
mount. 
As the young eagle mounts the 
skies ! 

O eyes, with weeping faded out, 
What matters it how dim ye be ! 

My inner vision sweeps untired 
The reaches of eternity ! 

O Death, most dreaded power of all, 
When the last moment comes, and 
thou 
Darkenest the windows of my soul, 
Through which I look on Nature 
now ; 

Yea, when mortality dissolves, 

Shall I not meet thine hour un- 
awed ? 

My house eternal in the heavens 
Is lighted by the smile of God ! 



THOU KNOWEST. 

Lord, with what body do they come 
Who in corruption here are sown, 

When with humiliation done, 

They wear the likeness of thine 
own ? 

Lord, of what manner didst thou make 
The fruits upon life's healing tree ? 

Where flows that water we may take 
And thirst not through eternity ? 

Where lie the beds of lilies prest 
By virgins whiter than their snow ? 

What can we liken to the rest 

Thy well-beloved yet shall know ? 

And where no moon shall shine by 
night, 
No sun shall rise and take his place, 
How shall we look upon the light, 
O Lamb of God, that lights thy 
face ? 

How shall we speak our joy that 
day 

We stand upon the peaceful shore, 
Where blest inhabitants shall say, 

Lo ! we are sick and sad no more ? 

What anthems shall they raise to 
thee, 

The host upon the other side ? 
What will our depths of rapture be 

When heart and soul are satisfied ? 

How will life seem when fear, nor 
dread, 
Nor mortal weakness chains our 
powers ; 
When sin is crushed, and death is 
dead, 
And all eternity is ours ? 

When, with our lover and our spouse, 

We shall as angels be above. 
And plight no troths and breathe no 

vows, 
How shall we tell and prove our love ? 

How can we take in faith thy hand, 
And walk the way that we must 
tread ? 
How can we trust and understand 
That Christ will raise us from the 
dead ? 



$2 



THE POEMS OE PHCEBE CARY. 



We cannot see nor know to-day, 
For He hath made us of the dust ; 

We can but wait his time, and say, 
Even though He slay me, will I 
trust ! 



Swift to the dead we hasten now, 
And know not even the way we go ; 

Yet quick and dead are thine, and 
thou — 
Thou knowest all we do not know ! 



CHRISTMAS. 

This happy day, whose risen sun 
Shall set not through eternity, 

This holy day when Christ, the Lord, 
Took on Him our humanity, 

For little children everywhere 
A joyous season still we make ; 

We bring our precious gifts to them, 
Even for the dear child Jesus' sake. 

The glory from the manger shed, 
Wherein*the lowly Saviour lay, 

Shines as a halo round the head 
Of every human child to-day. 

And each unconscious infant sleeps 
Intrusted to his guardian care ; 

Hears his dear name in cradle hymns, 
And lisps it in its earliest prayer. 

Thou blessed Babe of Bethlehem ! 

Whose life we love, whose name we 
laud ; 
Thou Brother, through whose poverty, 

We have become the heirs of God ; 

Thou sorrowful, yet tempted Man — 
Tempted in all things like as we, 

Treading with tender, human feet, 
The sharp, rough way of Calvary ; 

We do remember how, by thee, 

The sick were healed, the halting 
led; 
How thou didst take the little ones 
And pour thy blessings on their 
head. 

We know for what unworthy men 
Thou once didst deign to toil and 
live ; 

What weak and sinful women thou 
Didst love, and pity, and forgive. 



And, Lord, if to the sick and poor 
We go with generous hearts to-day, 

Or in forbidden places seek 

For such as wander from the way ; 



And by our loving words or deeds 
Make this a hallowed time to them ; 
we ourselves be found un- 
meet, 
For sin, to touch thy garment's hem ; 



Though 



Wilt thou not, for thy wondrous grace, 

And for thy tender charity, 
Accept the good we do to these, 

As we had done it unto thee ? 

And for the precious little ones, 

Here from their native heaven astray, 

Strong in their very helplessness, 
To lead us in the better way ; 

If we shall make thy natal day 
A season of delight to these, 

A season always crowded full 
Of sweet and pleasant memories ; 

Wilt thou not grant us to forget 

Awhile our weight of care and pain, 

And in their joys, bring back their joy 
Of early innocence again ? 

O holy Child, about whose bed 
The virgin mother softly trod ; 

Dead once, yet living evermore, 
O Son of Mary, and of God ! 

If any act that we can do, 

If any thought of ours is right, 

If any prayer we lift to thee, 

May find acceptance in thy sight, 

Hear us, and give to us, to-day, 
In answer to our earnest cries, 

Some portion of that sacred love 
That drew thee to us from the 
skies ! 



PRODIGALS. 

Again, in the Book of Books, to-day 
I read of that Prodigal, far away 

In the centuries agone, 
Who took the portion that to him fell, 
And went from friends and home to 
dwell 

In a distant land alone. 



REUO/OCS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



383 



And when his riotous living was done, 
And his course of foolish pleasure run, 
And a fearful famine rose, 

He fain would have ted with the very 

swine. 
And no man gave him bread nor wine, 
For his friends were changed to foes. 

And I thought, when at last his state 

he knew 
What a little thin- lie had to do, 

To win again his place : 
Only the madness of sin to learn, 
To come to himself, repent, and turn, 

And seek his father's face. 

Then I thought however vile we are. 
Not one of us hath strayed so far 

From the things that are good and 
pure. 
But if to gain his home he tried, 
He would find the portal open wide, 

And find his welcome sure. 

My fellow-sinners, though you dwell 
In haunts where the feet take hold on 
hell. 
Where the downward way is plain ; 
Think, who is waiting for you at home, 
Repent, and come to yourself, and 
come 
To your Father's house again ! 

Say. out of the depths of humility, 
" I have lost the claim of a child on 
thee, 

I would serve thee with the least ! " 
And He will a royal robe prepare, 
He will call you son, and call you heir ; 

And seat you at the feast. 

Yea, fellow-sinner, rise to-day. 
And run till He meets you on the way, 
Till you hear the glad words said, — 
" Let joy through all the heavens re- 
sound, 
For this, my son, who was lost is 
found, 
And he lives who once was dead." 



ST. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX. 

In the shade of the cloister, long ago — 
They are dead and buried for cent- 
uries — 

The pious monks walked to and fro, 
Talking of holy mysteries. 



By a blameless life and penance hard, 
Each brother there had proved his 
call ; 
But the one we name the St. Bernard 
Was the sweetest soul among them 
all. 

And oft as a silence on them fell, 
He would pause, and listen, and 
whisper low, 
11 There is One who waits for me in my 
cell; 
I hear Him calling, and I must go ! " 

No charm of human fellowship 

His soul from its dearest love can 
bind ; 
With a " Jesu Dulcis " on his lip, 
He leaves all else that is sweet be- 
hind. 

The only hand that he longs to take, 
Pierced, from the cross is reaching 
down ; 
And the head he loves, for his dear 
sake 
Was wounded once with a thorny 
crown. 

Ah ! men and brethren, He whose 
call 
Drew that holy monk with a power 
divine, 
Was the One who is calling for us 
all, 
Was the Friend of sinners — yours 
and mine ! 

From the sleep of the cradle to the 
grave, 
From the first low cry till the lip is 
dumb, 
Ready to help us, and strong to save, 
He is calling, and waiting till we 
come. 

Lord ! teach us always thy voice to 

know, 
And to turn to thee from the world 

beside, 1 

Prepared when our time has come to 

Whether at morn or eventide. 

And to say when the heavens are rent 
in twain. 
When suns are darkened, and stars 
shall flee, 



3§4 



THE POEMS OF PUCE BE CARY. 



Lo ! thou hast not called for us in 
vain, 
And we shall not call in vain for 
thee ! 



THE WIDOW'S THANKSGIVING. 

Of the precious years of my life, to- 
day 
I count another one ; 
And I thank thee, Lord, for the light 
is good, 
And 't is sweet to see the sun. 

To watch the seasons as they pass, 
Their wondrous wealth unfold, 

Till the silvery treasures of the snow 
Are changed to the harvest's gold. 

For kindly still does the teeming 
earth 

Her stores of plenty yield, 
Whether we come to bind the sheaves, 

Or only to glean in the field. 

And dwelling in such a pleasant land, 
Though poor in goods and friends, 

We may still be rich, if we live con- 
tent 
With what our Father sends. 



f we feel that life is a blessed thing 



A boon to be desired ; 
nd where not much to i 
Not much will be required ; 



And where not much to us is given, 



And keep our natures sweet with the 
sense 
Of fervent gratitude, 
That we have been left to live in the 
world, 
And to know that God is good ! 

And since there is naught of all we 
have, 
That we have not received : 
Shall we dare, though our treasures be 
reclaimed, 
To call ourselves bereaved ? 

For 't is easy to walk by sight in the 
day; 
'T is the night that tries our faith ; 
And what is that worth if we render 
thanks 
For life and not for death ? 



Lo ! I glean alone ! and the children, 
Lord, 

Thou gavest unto me, 
Have one by one fled out of my arms, 

And into eternity. 

Aye, the last and the bravest of them 
died 

In prison, far away ; 
And no man, of his sepulchre, 

Knoweth the place to-day. 

Yet is not mine the bitterness 
Of the soul that doth repent ; 

If I had it now to do again, 

I would bless him that he went. 

There are many writ in the book of life 
Whose graves are marked unknown ; 

For his country and his God he died, 
And He will know his own ! 

In the ranks he fought ; but he stood 
the first 

And bravest in the lines ; 
And no fairer, brighter name than his 

On the roll of honor shines. 

And because he faltered not, nor failed 
In the march, nor under fire ; 

His great promotion came at last, 
In the call to go up higher. 

Fair wives, whose homes are guarded 
round 

By love's securities ; 
Mothers, who gather all your flock 

At night about your knees ; 

Thrice happy, happy girls, who hold 
The hand of your lovers fast ; 

Widows, who keep an only son 
To be your stay to the last : 

You never felt, though you give God 
thanks 

For his blessings day by day, 
That perfect peace which blesses Him 

For the good He takes away ;' 

The joy of a soul that even in pain 

Beholds his love's decrees, 
Who sets the solitary ones 

In the midst of families. 

Lord, help me still, at the midnight 
hour, 
My lamp of faith to trim ; 



KEUCIOCS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



385 



And so sing from my heart, at the 
break of day. 
A glad thanksgiving hymn : 

Nor doubt thy love, though my earthly 
joys 
Were narrowed down to this one, 
So long as the sweet day shines for 
me, 
And mine eyes behold the sun. 

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. 

Questioning, blind, unsatisfied. 
Out of the dark my spirit cried, — 
Wherefore for sinners, lost, undone, 
Gave the Father his only Son ? 

Clear and sweet there came reply, — 
Out of my soul or out of the sky 
A voice like music answered : — 
God so loved the world, it said. 

Could not the Lord from heaven give 

aid ? 
Win was He born of the mother-maid ? 
Only tlie Son of man could be 
Touched with man's infirmity ! 

Why must He lay his infant head 

In the manger, where the beasts were 

fed? 
So that the poorest here might cry, 
My Lord was as lowly born as If 

Why for friends did He choose to 

know 
Sinners and harlots here below ? 
Not to the righteous did He come, 
But to find a?id bring the wanderers 

home. 

He was tempted ? Yes, He sounded 

III en 
All that hides i?i the hea?'ts of men ; 
And He knoweth, when we intercede, 
How to succor our souls in their need. 

Why should they whom He called his 

own, 
Deny, betray Him, leave Him alone ? 
That He might know their direst pain, 
Who have trusted human love in vain / 

Must He needs have washed the 

traitor's feet 
Ere his abasement was made complete ? 

25 



Yea y for women have thus laid dow>i 
Their hearts for a Judas to trample 

on .' 

By one cup might He not drink less ; 
Nor lose one drop of the bitterness ; 
Must He suffer, though without blame, 
Stripes and buffeting, scorn and 
shame ? 

Alas ! and wherefore should it be 

That He must die on Calvary; 

Must bear the pain and the cruel 

thrust, 
Till his heart with its very anguish 

burst ? 

That martyrs, dying for his name, 
Whether by cross, or fiood, or flame, 
Might know they were called to bear no 

more 
Than He, their blessed Master, bore. 

What did He feel in that last dread 

cry ? 
The height and the depth of agony ! 
All the anguish a mortal can, 
Who dies forsaken of God and man / 

Is there no way to Him at last 

But that where His bleeding feet have 

passed ? 
Did he not to his followers say, 
I am the Life, the Light, the Way ? 

Yea, and still from the heavens He 

saith 
The gate of life is the gate of death ; 
Peace is the crown of faith's good 

fight, 
And the way of the cross is the way of 

light ! 



HYMN. 

Come down, O Lord, and with us 
live ! 

For here with tender, earnest call, 
The gospel thou didst freely give, 

We freely offer unto all. 

Come, with such power and saving 
grace, 

That we shall cry, with one accord, 
" How sweet and awful is this place, — 

This sacred temple of the Lord." 



386 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Let friend and stranger, one in thee, 
Feel with such power thy Spirit 
move, 

That every man's own speech shall be, 
The sweet eternal speech of love. 

Yea, fill us with the Holy Ghost, 
Let burning hearts and tongues be 
given, 

Make this a day of Pentecost, 
A foretaste of the bliss of heaven ! 



OF ONE FLESH. 

A man he was who loved the good, 
Yet strayed in crooked ways apart ; 

He could not do the thing he would, 
Because of evil in his heart. 

He saw men garner wealth and fame, 
Ripe in due time, a precious load ; 

He fainted ere the harvest came, 

And failed to gather what he sowed. 

He looked if haply grapes had grown 
On the wild thorns that choked his 
vines ; 
When clear the truth before him shone 
He sought for wonders and for 
signs. 

Others Faith's sheltered harbor found, 
The while his bark was tossed 
about ; 

Drifting and dragging anchor round 
The troubled, shoreless sea of doubt. 

Where he would win, he could not 
choose 
But yield to weakness and despair ; 
He ran as they who fear to lose, 

And fought as one who beats the 
air. 

Walking where hosts of souls have 
passed, 
By faith and hope made strong and 
brave, 
He, groping, stumbled at the last, 
And blindly fell across the grave. 

Yet speak of him in charity, 

O man ! nor write of blame one 
line ; 
Say that thou wert not such as he — 

He was thy brother, and was mine ! 



TEACH US TO WAIT! 

Why are we so impatient of delay, 

Longing forever for the time to be ? 
For thus we live to-morrow in to- 
day, 
Yea, sad to-morrows we may never 
see. 

We are too hasty ; are not reconciled 
To let kind Nature do her work 
alone : 
We plant our seed, and like a foolish 
child 
We dig it up to see if it has grown. 

The good that is to be we covet now, 
We cannot wait for the appointed 
hour ; 
Before the fruit is ripe, we shake the 
bough, 
And seize the bud that folds away 
the flower. 

When midnight darkness reigns we do 
not see 
That the sad night is mother of the 
morn ; 
We cannot think our own sharp 
agony 
May be the birth-pang of a joy un- 
born. 

Into the dust we see our idols cast, 
And cry, that death has triumphed, 
life is void ! 
We do not trust the promise, that the 
last 
Of all our enemies shall be de- 
stroyed ! 

With rest almost in sight the spirit 

faints, 
And heart and flesh grow weary at the 

last ; 
Our feet would walk the city of the 

saints, 
Even before the silent gate is passed. 

Teach us to wait until thou shalt ap- 
pear — 
To know that all thy ways and times 
are just ; 
Thou seest that we. do believe, and 
fear, 
Lord, make us also to believe and 
trust ! 



KELJG/OLS rOEMS AND HYMNS. 



387 



IN HIS ARMS. 

If when thy children, O my friend, 
Were clasped by thee, in love's em- 
brace. 
Their guardian angels, that in heaven 

Always behold the Father's face ; 

Thine earthly home, on shining wings, 
Had entered, as of old they came, 

To grant to these whatever good, 
Thou shouldst desire, in Jesus' 
name ; — 

Or as the loving sinner came, 

And worshiped when He sat at meat, 

Couldst thou, thyself have come to 
Him, 
And bowed thy forehead to his feet ; 

And prayed Him by that tender love. 
He feels for those to whom He 
came. 
To give to thy beloved ones, 

The best thou couldst desire or 
name ; — 

What couldst thou ask so great as this, 
Out of his love's rich treasury, 

That He should take them in his arms, 
And bless, and keep them safe for 
thee ? 

Ah ! favored friend, nor faith, nor 
prayers, 
Nor richest offering ever brought 
A token of the Saviour's love 

So sweet, as thou hast gained un- 
sought ! 



For 



The heart is not satisfied : 
more than the world can give 
pleads : 
It has infinite wants and infinite needs 
And its every beat is an awful cry 
For love that never 
die ; 
The heart is not satisfied ! 



it 



can change nor 



UNBELIEF. 



Faithless, perverse, and blind, 
We sit in our house of fear, 



When the winter of sorrow comes to 
our souls. 
And the days of Our life are drear. 

For when in darkness and clouds 
The way of God is concealed. 

We doubt the words of his promises, 
And the glory to be revealed. 

We do but trust in part : 

We grope in the dark alone ; 

Lord, when shall we see thee as thou 
art. 
And know as we are known ? 

When shall we live to thee 

And die to thee, resigned, 
Nor fear to hide what we would keep, 

And lose what we would find ? 

For we doubt our Father's care, 
We cover our faces and cry, 

If a little cloud, like the hand of a man, 
Darkens the face of our sky. 

We judge of his perfect day 

By our life's poor glimmering spark ; 
And measure eternity's circle 

By the segment of an arc. 

We say, they have taken our Lord, 
And we know not where He lies, 

When the light of his resurrection morn 
Is breaking out of the skies. 

And we stumble at last when we come 
On the brink of the grave to stand ; 

As if the souls that are born of his love 
Could slip their Father's hand ? 



THE VISION ON THE MOUNT. 

Oh, if this living soul, that many a time 
Above the low things of the earth cloth 

climb, 
Up to the mountain-top of faith sublime, 
If she could only stay 
In that high place alway. 
And hear, in reverence bowed, 
God's voice behind the cloud : 

Or if descending to the earth again 
Its lesson in the heart might still re- 
main : 
If we could keep the vision, clear and 
plain, 



388 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



Nor let one jot escape, 
So that we still might shape 
Our lives to deeds sublime 
By that exalted time : 

Ah ! what a world were ours to journey 

through ! 
What deeds of love and mercy we 

should do : 
Making our lives so beautiful and true, 
That in our face would shine 
The light of love divine, 
Showing that we had stood 
Upon the mount of God. 

But earthy of the earth, we downward 

tend, 
From the pure height of faith our feet 

descend, 
The hour of exaltation hath its end. 
And we, alas ! forget, 
In life's turmoil and fret, 
The pattern to us shown, 
When on the mount alone. 

Yea, we forget the rapture we had 

known, 
Forget the voice that talked to us alone, 
Forget the brightness past, the cloud 
that shone ; 
We have no need to veil 
Our faces, dim and pale, 
So soon from out them dies 
The sweet light of the skies. 

We come down from the height where 

we have been, 
And build our tabernacles low and 

mean, 
Not by the pattern in the vision seen 
Remembering no more, 
When once the hour is o'er, 
How in the safe cleft of the rock on 

high, 
The shadow of the Lord has passed us 

by. 



A CANTICLE. 

Be with me, O Lord, when my life 
hath increase 
Of the riches that make it complete ; 
When, favored, I walk in the pathway 
of peace, 
That is pleasant and safe to the feet : 
Be with me and keep me, when all the 
day long 



Delight hath no taint of alloy ; 
When my heart runneth over with 
laughter and song, 
And my cup with the fullness of 
joy- 
Be with me, O Lord, when I make my 
complaint 
Because of my sorrow and care ; 
Take the weight from my soul, that is 
ready to faint, 
And give me thy burden to bear. 
If the sun of the desert at noontide, in 
wrath 
Descends on my shelterless head, 
Be thou the cool shadow and rock in 
the path 
Of a land that is weary to tread. 

In the season of sorest affliction and 
dread, 
When my soul is encompassed with 
fears, 
Till I lie in the darkness awake on my 
bed, 
And water my pillow with tears ; 
When lonely and sick, for the tender 
delight 
Of thy comforting presence I pray, 
Come into my chamber, O Lord, in the 
night, 
And stay till the break of the day. 

Through the devious paths of the world 
be my guide, 
Till its trials, and its dangers are 
past ; 
If I walk through the furnace, be thou 
by my side, 
Be my rod and my staff to the last. 
When my crudest enemy presses me 
hard 
To my last earthly refuge and rest — 
Put thy arms underneath and about me, 
O Lord, 
Let me lie tenderly on thy breast. 

Come down when in silence I slumber 
alone, 
When the death seal is set on mine 
eyes ; 
Break open the sepulchre, roll off the 
stone, 
And bear me away to the skies. 
Lord, lay me to rest by the river, that 
bright 
From the throne of thy glory doth 
flow ; 



RELIGIOUS rOEMS AND HYMNS. 



389 



Where the odorous beds of the lilies 
are white 
And the roses of paradise blow ! 



THE CRY OF THE HEART AND 

FLESH. 

WHEN her mind was sore bewildered, 

And her feet were gone astray, 
When she saw no fiery column. 

And no cloud before her way, — 
Then, with earnest supplication, 

To the mighty One she prayed, 
" Thou for whom we were created, 

And by whom the worlds were 
made, — 
By thy pity for our weakness. 

By thy wisdom and thy might, 
Son of God, Divine Redeemer ! 

Guide and keep me in the right ! " 

When Faith had broke her moorings, 

And upon a sea of doubt, 
Her soul with fear and darkness 

Was encompassed round about ; 
Then she said, " O Elder Brother ! 

By thy human nature, when 
Thou wert made to be in all things 

Like unto the sons of men : 
By the hour of thy temptation, 

By thy one forsaken cry. 
Son of God and man ! have mercy, 

Send thy light down from on high ! " 

When her very heart was broken, 

Bearing more than it could bear, 
Then she clasped her anguish, crying, 

In her passionate despair, — 
" Thou who wert beloved of women, 

And who gav'st them love again, 
By the strength of thine affection, 

By its rapture and its pain, 
Son of God and Son of woman ! 

Lo ! 't is now the eventide ! 
Come from heaven, O sacred lover ! 

With thine handmaid to abide : 
Come down as the bridegroom cometh 

From his chamber to the bride ! " 



OUR PATTERN. 

A weaver sat one day at his loom, 
Among the colors bright, 

With the pattern for his copying 
Hung fair and plain in sight. 



But the weaver's thoughts were wan- 
dering 

Away on a distant track. 
As he threw the shuttle in his hand 

Wearily forward and back. 

And he turned his dim eyes to the 
ground. 
And tears fell on the woof, 
For his thoughts, alas ! were not with 
his home. 
Nor the wife beneath its roof; 

When her voice recalled him suddenly 
To himself, as she sadly said : 

" Ah ! woe is me ! for your work is 
spoiled. 
And what will we do for bread ? " 

And then the weaver looked, and saw 
His work must be undone ; 

For the threads were wrong, and the 
colors dimmed, 
Where the bitter tears had run. 

" Alack, alack ! " said the weaver, 
" And this had all been right 

If I had not looked at my work, but 
kept 
The pattern in my sight ! " 

Ah ! sad it was for the weaver, 
And sad for his luckless wife : 

And sad will it be for us, if we say, 
At the end of our task of life : 

" The colors that we had to weave 
Were bright in our early years : 

But we wove the tissue wrong, and 
stained 
The woof with bitter tears. 

" We wove a web of doubt and fear — 
Not faith, and hope, and love — 

Because we looked at our work, and not 
At our Pattern up above ! " 



THE EARTHLY HOUSE. 

" Ye are the temple of God. .... If any man de- 
file the temple of God, him will God destroy ; for the 
the temple of God is holy." — 1 Corinthians iii. 16, 
17- 

Once — in the ages that have passed 

away. 
Since the fair morning of that fairest 

day. 



39° 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



When earth, in all her innocent beauty, 

stood 
Near her Creator, and He called her 

good — 
He who had weighed the planets in his 

hand, 
And dropped them in the places where 

they stand, 
Builded a little temple white and fair, 
And of a workmanship so fine and rare 
Even the star that led to Bethlehem 
Had not the value of this wondrous 

gem. 

Then, that its strength and beauty 

might endure, 
He placed within, to keep it clean and 

pure, 
A living human soul. To him He said : 
" This is the temple which my hands 

have made 
To be thy dwelling-place, or foul or 

fair, 
As thou shalt make it by neglect or 

care. 
Mar or deface this temple's sacred wall, 
And swiffr destruction on the work shall 

fall : 
Preserve it perfect in its purity, 
And God Himself shall come and dwell 

with thee ! " 

Then he for whom that holy place was 

built, 
Fair as a palace — ah, what fearful 

guilt ! — 
Grew, after tending it a little while, 
Careless, then reckless, and then wholly 

vile. 
The evil spirits came and dwelt with 

him ; 
The walls decayed, and through the 

windows dim 
He saw not this world's beauty any 

more, 
Heard no good angel knocking at his 

door ; 
And all his house, because of sin and 

crime, 
Tumbled and fell in ruin ere its time. 

Oh, men and brethren ! we who live 

to-day 
In dwellings made by God, though 

made of clay, 
Have these our mortal bodies ever been 
Kept fit for Him who made them pure 

and clean ; 



Or was that soul in evil sunk so deep, 
He spoiled the temple he was set to 

keep, 
And turned to wastefulness and to 

abuse 
The tastes and passions that were 

meant for use ; 
So like ourselves, that we, afraid, might. 

cry : ; - 

" Lord, who destroyest the temple — is 

it I ? " 



YE DID IT UNTO ME. 

Sinner, careless, proud, and cold, 
Straying from the sheltering fold, 
Hast thou thought how patiently 
The Good Shepherd follows thee ; 
Still with tireless, toiling feet, 
Through the tempest and the heat — 
Thought upon that yearning breast, 
Where He fain would have thee rest, 
And of all its tender pain, 
While He seeks for thee in vain ? 

Dost thou know what He must feel, 
Making vainly his appeal : 
When He knocketh at thy door 
Present entrance to implore ; 
Saying, " Open tinto Me, 
I will come and sup with thee " — 
Forced to turn away at last 
From the portal shut and fast ? 
Wilt thou careless slumber on, 
Even till thy Lord has gone, 
Heedless of his high behest, 
His desire to be thy guest ? 

Sinner, sinner, dost thou know 
What it is to slight Him so ? 
Sitting careless by the sea 
While He calleth, " Follow me"j 
Sleeping, thoughtless, unaware 
Of his agonizing prayer, 
While thy sins his soul o'erpower, 
And thou canst not watch one hour ? 
Our infirmities He bore, 
And our mortal form He wore ; 
Yea, our Lord was made to be 
Here in all things like as we, 
And, that pardon we might win, 
He, the sinless, bare our sin ! 

Sinner, though He comes no more 
Faint and fasting to thy door, 
His disciples here instead 
Thou canst give the cup and bread. 



KEUU/OCS POEMS AND HYMNS. 



39* 



If his lambs thou dost not feed, 
He it is that feels their need : 
He that suffers their distres 
Hunger, thirst, and wearine- 
He that loving them again 
Beareth all their bitter pain ! 
Canst thou then so reckless prove. 
Canst thou, darest thou slight his 
love ? 

Do not, sinner, for thy sake 
Make Him still the cross to take. 
And ascend again for thee 
Dark and dreadful Calvary ! 
Do not set the crown of pain 
On that sacred head again : 
Open all afresh and wide 
Closed wounds in hands and side. 
Do not, do not scorn his name, 
Putting Him to open shame ! 

Oh. by ali the love He knew. 
For his followers, dear and true : 
By the sacred tears He wept 
At the tomb where Lazarus slept : 
By Gethsemane's bitter crv. 
That the cup might pass Him by ; 
By that wail of agony, 
Why hast thou forsaken me t 
By that last and heaviest stroke, 
When his heart for sinners broke, 
Do not let Him lose the price 
Of his awful sacrifice ! 



THE SINNER AT THE CROSS. 

Hf.lpless before the cross I lay. 
With all to lose, or all to win. 

My steps had wandered from the way, 
My soul was burdened with her sin ; 

I spoke no word, I made no plea, 

But this, Be merciful to me .' 

To meet his gaze. I could not brook, 
Who for my sake ascended there ; 

I could not bear the angry look 

My dear offended Lord must wear ; 

Remembering how I had denied 

His name, my heart within me died. 

Almost I heard his awful voice, 
Sounding above my head in wrath : 

Fixing my everlasting choice 

With such as tread the downward 
path ; 

I waited for the words, Depart 

From me, accursed as thou art I 



One moment, all the world was stilled, 
Then, He who saw my anguish, 
spoke ; 
I heard, 1 breathed, my pulses thrilled, 
And heart, and brain, and soul 
awoke : 
No scorn, no wrath was in that tone, 
But pitying love, and love alone ! 

" And dost thou know, and love not 
me," 
He said, " when I have loved thee 
so ; 
It was for guilty men like thee 

I came into this world of woe ; 
To save the lost I lived and died, 
For sinners was I crucified." 

The fountain of my tears was dried, 
My eyes were lifted from the dust : 

" Jesus ! my blessed Lord ! I cried, 
And is it thou, I feared to trust ? 

And art thou He, I deemed my foe ; 

The Friend to whom I dared not 
go? 

" How could I shrink from such as 
thou, 

Divine Redeemer, as thou art ! 
I know thy loving kindness now, 

I see thy wounded, bleeding heart ; 
I know that thou didst give me thine, 
And all that thou dost ask is mine ! 

" My Lord, my God ! I know at last 
Whose mercy I have dared offend ; 

I own thee now, I hold thee fast, 
My Brother, Lover, and my Friend ! 

Take me and clasp me to thy breast, 

Bless me again, and keep me blest ! 

" Thou art the man, who ne'er re- 
fused 

With sinful men to sit at meat ; 
Who spake to her who was accused 

Of men, and trembling at thy feet, 
As lips had never spoke before, 
Go uncondemnned, and sin no niore. 

" Dear Lord ! not all eternity 

Thy image from my heart can 
move, 
When thou didst turn and look on 
me, 
When first I heard thy words of 
love ; 
Repent, believe, and thou shall be, 
To-night in Paradise with me." 



392 THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 




Though many sweet and precious 


THE HEIR. 


promises 




Have had their sweet fulfillment, 


An orphan, through the world 


even here. 


Unfriended did I roam, 




I knew not that my Father lived, 


And yet to others, what I name my 


Nor that I had a home. 


own 




Poor unrealities and shows might 


No kindred might I claim, 


seem ; 


No lover sought for me ; 


Since my best house hath no founda- 


Mine was a solitary life, 


tion-stone. 


Set in no family. 


My tenderest lover is a tender dream. 


I yielded to despair, 


And would you learn who leads me, if 


I sorrowed night and morn — 


below 


I cried, " Ah ! good it were for me, 


I choose the good or from the ill for- 


If I had not been born ! " 


bear ? 




A little child He suffered long ago 


At midnight came a man — 


To come unto his arms, and keeps 


He knocked upon my door ; 


her there ! 


He spake such tender words as man 




Ne'er spake to me before. 


The alms I give the beggar at my 




gate 


I rose to let him in, 


I do but lend to One who thrice re- 


I shook with fear and dread ; 


pays ; 


A lamp was shining in his hand, 


The only heavenly bread I ever ate 


A brightness round his head. 


Came back to find me, after many 
days. 


" And who art thou," I cried ; 


" I scarce for awe might speak ; 


The single friend whose presence can- 


And why for such a wretch as I 


not fail, 


Dost thou at midnight seek ? " 


Whose face I always see without dis- 




guise, 


"Though thou hast strayed," He 


Went down into the grave and left the 


said, 


veil 


" From me thou couldst not flee ; 


Of mortal flesh that hid her from my 


I am thy Brother and thy Friend, 


eyes ! 


And thou shalt share with me ! 






My clearest way is that which faith 


" For me thou hast not sought, 


hath shown, 


I sought thee everywhere ; 


Not that in which by sight I daily 


Thou hast a Father and a home, 


move ; 


With mansions grand and fair. 


And the most precious thing my soul 




hath known 


" To thine inheritance 


Is that which passeth knowledge, 


I came thy soul to bring ; 


God's dear love. 


Thou art the royal heir of heaven — 




The daughter of the King ! " 






HYMN. 


REALITIES. 


When the world no solace gives, 




When in deep distress I groan ; 


Things that I have to hold and keep, 


When my lover and my friend 


ah ! these 


Leave me with my' grief alone ; 


Are not the treasures to my heart 


When a weary land I tread, 


most dear ; 


Fainting for the rocks and springs, 



RELIC 10 IS rOKMS AND HYMNS. 



393 



Overshadow me, O Lord 

With the comfort of thy wings ! 

When my heart and flesh shall fail, 

When I yield my mortal breath. 
When I gather up my feet. 

Icy with the chill of death ; 
Strengthen and sustain me. Lord, 

With thine all-sufficient grace : 
Overlean my dying bed 

With the sweetness of thy face ! 

When the pang, the strife is past, 

When my spirit mounts on high, 
Catch me up in thine embrace. 

In thy bosom let me lie ! 
Freed from sin and freed from death, 

Hid with thee, in heaven above, 
Oversplendor me. God, 

With the glory of thy love. 



WOUNDED 

O MEN, with wounded souls, 
O women, with broken hearts, 

That have suffered since ever the world 
was made. 
And nobly borne your parts ; 

Suffered and borne as well 

As the martyrs whom we name, 

That went rejoicing home, through 
flood, 
Or singing through the flame ; 

Ye have had of Him reward 

For your battles fought and won, 

Who giveth his beloved rest 

When the day of their work is 
done. 

Ye have changed for perfect peace 
The pain of the ways ye trod ; 

And laid your burdens softly down, 
At the merciful feet of God ! 



A CRY OF THE HEART. 

Oh, for a mind more clear to see, 
A hand to work more earnestly 

For every good intent ; 
Oh, for a Peter's fiery zeal, 
His conscience always quick to feel, 

And instant to repent ! 



Oh, for a faith more strong and true 
Than that which doubting Thomas 
knew, 

A faith assured and clear; 
To know that He who for us died, 
Rejected, scorned, and crucified, 

Lives, and is with us here. 

Oh, for the blessing shed upon 
That humble, loving, sinful one, 

Who, when He sat at meat, 
With precious store of ointment came ; 
Hid from her Lord her face for shame, 

And laid it on his feet. 

Oh, for that look of pity seen 
By her, the guilty Magdalene, 

Who stood her Judge before ; 
And listening, for her comfort heard, 
The tender, sweet, forgiving word : — 

Go thou, and sin no ?nore / 

Oh, to have stood with James and 

John, 
Where brightness round the Saviour 
shone, 
Whiter than light of day ; 
When by the voice and cloud dismayed, 
They fell upon the ground afraid, 
And wist not what to say. 

Oh, to have been the favored guest, 
That leaned at supper on his breast, 

And heard his dear Lord say: 
He who shall testify of Me, 
The Comforter, ye may not see 

Except I go away. 

Oh, for the honor won by her, 
Who early to the sepulchre 

Hastened in tearful gloom ; 
To whom He gave his high behest, 
To tell to Peter and the rest, 

Their Lord had left the tomb. 

Oh, for the vision that sufficed 
That first blest martyr after Christ, 

And gave a peace so deep, 
That while he saw with raptured eyes. 
Jesus with God in Paradise, 

He, praying, feel asleep. 

But if such heights I may not gain, 
O thou, to whom no soul in vain 

Or cries, or makes complaints ; 
This only favor grant to me, — 
That I of sinners chief, may be 
The least of all thy saints ! 




POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



EARTH TO EARTH. 

His hands with earthly work are done, 
His feet are done with roving ; 

We bring him now to thee and ask, 
The loved to take the loving. 

Part back thy mantle, fringed with 
green, 

Broidered with leaf and blossom, 
And lay him tenderly to sleep, 

Dear Earth, upon thy bosom. 

Thy cheerful birds, thy liberal flowers, 
Thy woods and waters only 

Gave him their sweet companionship 
And made his hours less lonely. 

Though friendship never blest his way, 

And love denied her blisses ; 
No flower concealed her face from him, 
. No wind withheld her kisses. 

Nor man hath sighed, nor woman wept 
To go their ways without him ; 

So, lying here, he still will have 
His truest friends about him. 

Then part thy mantle, fringed with 
green, 

Broidered with leaf and blossom, 
And lay him tenderly to sleep, 

Dear Earth, upon thy bosom ! 



THE UNHONORED. 

Alas, alas ! how many sighs 

Are breathed for his sad fate, who 

dies 
With triumph dawning on his eyes. 



What thousands for the soldier weep, 
From his first battle gone to sleep 
That slumber which is long and deep. 

But who about his fate can tell, 
Who struggled manfully and well ; 
Yet fainted on the march, and fell ? 

Or who above his rest makes moan, 
Who dies in the sick-tent alone — 
" Only a private, name unknown ! " 

What tears down Pity's cheek have run 

For poets singing in the sun, 

Stopped suddenly, their song half done. 

But for the hosts of souls below, 
Who to eternal silence go, 
Hiding their great unspoken woe ; 

Who sees amid their ranks go down, 

Heroes, that never won renown, 

And martyrs, with no martyr's crown ? 

Unrecognized, a poet slips 
Into death's total, long eclipse, 
With breaking heart, and wordless 
lips ; 

And never any brother true 

Utters the praise that was his due — 

" This man was greater than ye knew ! " 

No maiden by his grave appears, 
Crying out in long after years, 
" I would have loved him," through her 
tears. 

We weep for her, untimely dead, 
Who would have pressed the marriage- 
bed, 
Yet to death's chamber went instead. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND O \TION. 



395 



But who deplores the sadder fate. 

her who finds no mortal mate. 
And lives anil dies most desolate ? 

Alas ! "t is sorrowful to know 

That she who finds least love below. 

Finds least pity tor her woe. 

Hard is her fate who feels life past. 
When loving hands still hold her 

fast, 
And loving eyes watch to the last. 

But she. whose lids no kisses prest. 
Who crossed her own hands on her 

breast. 
And went to her eternal rest : 

She had so sad a lot below, 

That her unutterable woe 

Only the pitying God can know ! 

When little hands are dropped away 
From the warm bosom where they 

lay. 
And the poor mother holds but clay ; 

What human lip that does not moan, 
What heart that does not inly groan, 
And make such suffering its own ? 

Yet, sitting mute in their despair, 
With their unnoticed griefs to bear, 
Are childless women everywhere ; 

Who never knew, nor understood. 
That which is woman's greatest good, 
The sacredness of motherhood. 

But putting down their hopes and 

fears, 
Claiming no pity and no tears, 
They live the measure of their years. 

They see age stealing on apace, 

And put the gray hairs from their 

face, 
No children's fingers shall displace ! 

Though grief hath many a form and 

show, 
I think that unloved women know 
The very bottom of life's woe ! 

And that the God, who pitying sees, 
Hath yet a recompense for these, 
Kept in the long eternities ! 



JENNIE. 

YOU have sent me from her tomb 
A poor withered flower to keep. I 

Broken off in perfect bloom. 

Such as hers, who lies asleep — 

Underneath the roses lies. 

Hidden from your mortal eyes. 

Never from your heart concealed. 

Always to your soul revealed. 

Oh. to think, as day and night 

Come and go, and go and come, 
How the smile which was its liHit 

Hath been darkened in your home ! 
Oh, to think that those dear eyes, 
Copied from the summer skies, 
Could have veiled their heavenly blue 
From the sunshine, and from you ! 

Oh, to have that tender mouth, 
With its loveliness complete, 

Shut up in its budding youth 

From all kisses, fond and sweet ! 

Fairest blossom, red and rare, 

Could not with her lips compare ; 

Yea. her mouth's young beauty shamed 

All the roses ever named. 

Why God hid her from your sight. 

Leaving anguish in her place, 
At the noonday sent the night, 

Night that almost hid his face, 
Not to us is fully shown, 
Not to mortals can be known, 
Though they strive, through tears and 

doubt, 
Still to guess his meaning out. 

Full of mystery 't is. and yet 

If you clasped still those charms, 
Mother, might you not forget 

Mothers who have empty arms ? 
If you satisfied in her 

Every want and every need, 
Could you be a comforter 

To the hearts that moan and bleed ? 

Take this solace for your woe : 

God's love never groweth dim ; 
All of goodness that you know, 

All your loving comes from him ! 
You say, " She has gone to death ! " 
Very tenderly, God saith : 
" Better so ; I make her mine. 
And my love exceedeth thine ! " 



39^ 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



COWPER'S CONSOLATION. 1 

He knew what mortals know when tried 
By suffering's worst and last ex- 
treme ; 
He knew the ecstacy allied 

To bliss supreme. 

Souls, hanging on his melody, 

Have caught his rapture of belief ; 
The heart of all humanity 

Has felt his grief. 

In sweet compassion and in love 

Poets about his tomb have trod ; 
And softly hung their wreaths above 

The hallowed sod. 

His hymns of victory, clear and strong, 

Over the hosts of sin and doubt, 
Still make the Christian's battle-song, 
And triumph-shout. 

Tasting sometimes his Father's grace, 

Yet for wise purposes allowed 
Seldom to see«the "smiling face " 

Behind the cloud ; 

Surely when he was left the prey 

Of torments only Heaven can still, 
" God moved in a mysterious way " 

To work his will. 

Yet many a soul through life has trod 

Untroubled o'er securest ground, 
Nor knew that "closer walk with 
God" 

His footsteps found. 

With its great load of grief to bear, 
The reed, though bruised, might not 
break ; 
God did not leave him to despair, 

Nor quite forsake. 

The pillow by his tear-drops wet, 

The stoniest couch that heard his 
cries, 
Had near a golden ladder set 

That touched the skies. 



1 The most important events of Cowper's latter 
years were audibly announced to him before they oc- 
curred. We find him writing of Mrs. Unwin's ap- 
proaching and sudden death," when her health, al- 
though feeble, was not such as to occasion alarm. 
His lucid intervals, and the return of his disorder, 
were announced to him in the same remarkable 
manner. — Cowper's A udible Illusions. 



And at the morning on his bed, 

And in sweet visions of the night, 
Angels, descending, comforted 

His soul with light. 

Standing upon the hither side, 

How few of all the earthly host 
Have signaled those whose feet have 
trod 

The heavenly coast. 

Yet his it was at times to see, 

In glimpses faint and half-revealed, 
That strange and awful mystery 

By death concealed. 

And, as the glory thus discerned 

His heart desired, with strong 
desire ; 
By seraphs touched, his sad lips burned 
. With sacred fire. 

As ravens to Elijah bare, 

At morn and eve, the promised 
bread ; 
So by the spirits of the air 

His soul was fed. 

And, even as the prophet rose 

Triumphant on the flames of love, 
The fiery chariot of his woes 

Bore him above. 

Oh, shed no tears for such a lot, 

Nor deem he passed uncheered, 
alone ; 
He walked with God, and he was 
not, 

God took his own ! 



TWICE SMITTEN. 

O doubly-bowed and bruised reed, 
What can I offer in thy need ? 

O heart, twice broken with its grief, 
What words of mine can bring re- 
lief ?' 

O soul, o'erwhelmed with woe again, 
How can I soothe thy bitter pain ? 

Abashed and still, I stand and see 
Thy sorrow's awful majesty. 

Only dumb silence may convey 
That which my lip can never say. 



POEMS OF GRIEF AND CONSOLATION. 



397 



I cannot comfort thee at all : 
On the Great Comforter I call ; 



Still the touch of your hand is soft and 
light, 
And your voice is gentle, and kind, 
Praying that He may make thee see and low. 

How near He hath been drawn to And the very roses you wear to-night, 



thee. 

For unto man the angel guest 

Still comes through gates of suffering 

best : 

And most our Heavenly Father cares 
For whom He smites, not whom He 
spares. 

So. to his chastening meekly bow, 
Thou art of his beloved now ! 



BORDER-LAND. 

I know you are always by my side 
And I know you love me, Winifred 
dear. 
For I never called on you since you 
died, 
But you answered, tenderly, I am 
here ! 

So come from the misty shadows, 
where 
You came last night, and the night 
before, 
Put back the veil of your golden 
hair, 
And let me look in your face once 
more. 



You were in the summers long ago. 

O world, you may tell me I dream or 
rave, 
So long as my darling comes to prove 
That the feet of the spirit cross the 
grave, 
And the loving live, and the living 
love ! 



THE LAST BED. 

'T was a lonesome couch we came to 
spread 

For her, when her little life was o'er, 
And a narrower one than any bed 

Whereon she had ever slept before. 

And we feared that she could not slum- 
ber so, 
As we stood about her when all was 
done, 
For the pillow seemed too hard and 
low 
For her precious head to rest upon. 

But, when we had followed her two by 
two, 
And lowered her down there where 
she lies, 
There was nothing left for us to do, 
But to hide it all from our tearful 
eyes. 



Ah ! it is you : with that brow of truth, 
Ever too pure for the least disguise : 
With the same dear smile on the loving So we softly and tenderly spread be 



mouth, 

And the same sweet light in the tender 
eyes. 

You are my own, my darling still, 
So do not vanish or turn aside, 

Wait till my eyes have had their fill, — 
Wait till my heart is pacified ! 

You have left the light of your higher 
place, 
And ever thoughtful, and kind, and 
good, 
You come with your old familiar face, 
And not with the look of your angel- 
hood. 



tween 

Our face and the face our love re- 
grets, 
A covering, woven of leafy green, 

And spotted over with violets. 



LIGHT. 

While I had mine eyes, I feared ; 
The heavens in wrath seemed 
bowed : 
I look, and the sun with a smile breaks 
forth. 
And a rainbow spans the cloud. 



398 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



I thought the winter was here, 
That the earth was cold and bare, 

But I feel the coming of birds and 
flowers, 
And the spring-time in the air. 

I said that all the lips 

I ever had kissed were dumb ; 
That my dearest ones were dead and 
gone, 

And never a friend would come. 

But I hear a voice as sweet 
As the fall of summer showers ; 

And the grave that yawned at my very 
feet 
Is filled to the top with flowers ! 

As if 't were the midnight hour, 

I sat with gloom opprest ; 
When a light was breaking out of the 
east, 

And shining unto the west. 



I heard the angels call 

Across from the beautiful shore 
And I saw a look 



in 



my 



darling's 



eyes, 
That never was there before. 

Transfigured, lost to me, 

She had slipped from my embrace ; 
Now lo ! I hold her fast once more, 

With the light of God on her 
face ! 



WAITING THE CHANGE. 

I have no moan to make, 

No bitter tears to shed ; 
No heart, that for rebellious grief, 

Will not be comforted. 

There is no friend of mine 
Laid in the earth to sleep ; 

No grave, or green or heaped afresh, 
By which I stand and weep. 

Though some, whose presence once 
Sweet comfort round me shed, 



Here in the body walk no more 
The way that I must tread, 

Not they, but what they wore 

Went to the house of fear ; 
They were the incorruptible, 

They left corruption here. 

The veil of flesh that hid 

Is softly drawn aside ; 
More clearly I behold them now 

Than those who never died. 

Who died ! what means that word 
Of men so much abhorred ? 

Caught up in clouds of heaven to be 
Forever with the Lord ! 

To give this body, racked 

With mortal ills and cares, 
For one as glorious and as fair, 

As our Redeemer wears ; 

To leave our shame and sin, 

Our hunger and disgrace ; 
To come unto ourselves, to turn 

And find our Father's face ; 

To run, to leap, to walk, 

To quit our beds of pain, 
And live where the inhabitants 

Are never sick again : 

To sit no longer dumb, 

Nor halt, nor blind ; to rise — 

To praise the Healer with our tongue, 
And see him with our eyes ; 

To leave cold winter snows, 
And burning summer heats, 

And walk in soft, white, tender light, 
About the golden streets. 

Thank God ! for all my loved, 

That oat of pain and care, 
Have safely reached the heavenly 
heights, 

And stay to meet me there ! 

Not these I mourn ; I know 
Their joy by faith sublime — 

But for myself, that still below 
Must wait my appointed time. 




PERSONAL POEMS. 



READY. 

Loaded with gallant soldiers, 

A boat shot in to the land. 
And lay at the right of Rodman's 
Point, 

With her keel upon the sand. 



Lightly, gaylv, they came to shore, 

And never a man afraid, 
When sudden the enemy opened fire, 

From his deadly ambuscade. 

Each man fell flat on the bottom 
Of the boat ; and the captain said : 

" If we lie here, we all are captured, 
And the first who moves is dead ! " 

Then out spoke a negro sailor, 

No slavish soul had he ; 
" Somebody 's got to die, boys, 

And it might as well be me ! " 

Firmly he rose, and fearlessly 

Stepped out into the tide ; 
He pushed the vessel safely off, 

Then fell across her side : 

Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets. 

As the boat swung clear and free ; — 

But there wasn't a man of them that 
day 
Who was fitter to die than he ! 



DICKENS. 

" One story more," the whole world 
cried. 

The great magician smiled in doubt : 
" I am so tired that, if I tried, 

I fear I could not tell it out." 



" But one is all we ask," they said ; 

"You surely cannot faint nor fail." 
Again he raised his weary head, 

And slow began the witching tale. 

The fierce debater's tongue grew mute, 
Wise men were silent for his sake ; 

The poet threw aside his lute, 
And paused enraptured while he 
spake. 

The proudest lady in the land 

Forgot that praise and power were 
sweet ; 
She dropped the jewels from her 
hand, 
And sat enchanted at his feet. 

Lovers, with clasped hands lightly 
pre st, 
Saw Hope's sweet blossoms bud and 
bloom ; 
Men, hastening to their final rest, 
Stopped, half-enraptured with the 
tomb. 

Children, with locks of brown and 
gold, 
Gathered about like flocks of birds ; 
The poor, whose story he had told, 
Drew near and loved him for his 
words. 

His eye burns bright, his voice is 
strong, 

A waiting people eager stands ; 
Men on the outskirts of the throng 

Interpret him to distant lands. 

When lo ! his accents, faltering, fall : 
The -nations, awe-struck, hold their 
breath ; 



400 



THE POEMS OE PIMEBE GARY. 



The great magician, loved of all, 

Has sunk to slumber, tired to death ! 

His human eyes in blind eclipse 
Are from the world forever sealed ; 

The " mystery " trembling on his lips 
Shall never, never be revealed. 

Yet who would miss that tale half told, 
Though weird and strange, or sweet 
and true ; 
Who care to listen to the old, 

If he could hear the strange and 
new ? 

Alas ! alas ! it cannot be ; 

We too must sleep and change and 
rise. 
To learn the eternal mystery 

That dawned upon his waking eyes ! 



THADDEUS STEVENS. 

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire, 
Not the look of the gentle dove ; 

Not his thS form that men admire, 
Nor the face that tender women 
love. 

Working first for his daily bread 

With the humblest toilers of the 
earth ; 

Never walking with free, proud tread — 
Crippled and halting from his birth. 

Wearing outside a thorny suit 

Of sharp, sarcastic, stinging power ; 

Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit, 
Or inmost heart of fragrant flower. 

Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foe 
Felt his words like a sword of flame ; 

But to the humble, poor, and low 
Soft as a woman's his accents came. 

Not his the closest, tenderest friend — 
No children blessed his lonely way ; 

But down in his heart until the end 
The tender dream of his boyhood 
lay. 

His mother's faith he held not fast ; 

But he loved her living, mourned her 
dead, 
And he kept her memory to the* last 

As green as the sod above her bed. 



she wrought 



or 



He held as sacred in his home 
Whatever things 
planned, 

And never suffered change to come 
To the work of her " industrious 
hand." 

For her who pillowed first his head 
He heaped with a wealth of flowers 
the grave, 
While he chose to sleep in an un- 
marked bed, 
By his Master's humblest poor — the 
slave. 1 

Suppose he swerved from the straight- 
est course — 
That the things he should not do he 
did — 
That he hid from the eyes of mortals, 
close, 
Such sins as you and I have hid ? 

Or suppose him worse than you ; what 
then ? 

Judge not, lest you be judged for sin ! 
One said who knew the hearts of men : 

Who loveth much shall a pardon win. 

The Prince of Glory for sinners bled ; 
His soul was bought with a royal 
price ; 
And his beautified feet on flowers may 
tread 
To-day with his Lord in Paradise. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Great master of the poet's art ! 

Surely the sources of thy powers 
Lie in that true and tender heart 

Whose every utterance touches ours. 

For, better than thy words, that glow 
With sunset dyes or noontide heat, 

That count the treasures of the snow, 
Or paint the blossoms at our feet, 

Are those that teach the sorrowing 
how 
To lay aside their fear and doubt, 



1 Thaddeus Stevens, who cared nothing about his 
own burial-place, except that the spot should be one 
from which the humblest of his fellow-creatures were 
not excluded, left by will one thousand dollars to 
beautify and adorn the grave of his mother. 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



401 



And in submissive love to bow- 
To love that passeth finding out. 

And thou for such hast come to be 
In every home an honored guest — 

Even from the cities by the sea 
To the broad prairies of the West. 

Thy lays have cheered the humble 
home 
Where men who prayed for freedom 
knelt; 
And women, in their anguish dumb, 
Have heard thee utter what they felt. 

And thou hast battled for the right 
With many a brave and trenchant 
word. 

And shown us how the pen may fight 
A mightier battle than the sword. 

And therefore men in coming years 
Shall chant thy praises loud and 
lor,. 
And woman name thee through their 
tears 
A poet greater than his song. 

But not thy strains, with courage rife, 
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above 

The rhythmic beauty of thy life, 
Itself a canticle of love ! 



THE HERO OF FORT WAGNER. 

Fort Wagner ! that is a place for us 
To remember well, my lad ! 

For us, who were under the guns, and 
know 
The bloody work we had. 

I should not speak to one so young, 

Perhaps, as I do to you; 
But you are a soldier's son, my boy, 

And you know what soldiers do. 

And when peace comes to our land 
again, 

And your father sits in his home, 
You will hear such tales of war as this, 

For many a year to come. 

We were repulsed from the Fort, you 
know, 
And saw r our heroes fall, 
Till the dead were piled in bloody heaps 
Under the frowning wall. 
26 



Yet crushed as we were and beaten 
back, 

Our spirits never bowed; 
And gallant deeds that day were done 

To make a soldier proud. 

Brave men were there, for their coun- 
try's sake 
To spend their latest breath ; 
But the bravest was one who gave his 
life 
And his body after death. 

No greater words than his dying ones 
Have been spoken under the sun ; 

Not even his, who brought the news 
On the field at Ratisbon. 

I was pressing up, to try if yet 
Our men might take the place, 

And my feet had slipped in his oozing 
blood 
Before I saw his face. 

His face ! it was black as the skies 
o'erhead 
With the smoke of the angry guns ; 
And a gash in his bosom snowed the 
work 
Of our country's traitor sons. 

Your pardon, my poor boy ! I said, 

I did not see you here ; 
But I will not hurt you as I pass ; 

I '11 have a care ; no fear ! 

He smiled ; he had only strength to 
say 

These Avords, and that was all : 
" I 'm done gone, Massa ; step on me ; 

And you can scale the wall ! " 



GARIBALDI IN PIEDMONT. 

Hemmed in by the hosts of the Aus- 
trian s, 

No succor at hand, 
Adown the green passes of- Piedmont, 

That beautiful land, 

Moves a patriot band. 

Two long days and nights, watchful, 

sleepless, 
Have they ridden nor yet 
Checked the rein, though the feet of 

their horses, 



402 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



In the ripe vineyard set, 
By its wine have been wet. 

What know they of weariness, hun- 
ger, 

What good can they lack, 
While they follow their brave Garibaldi, 

Who never turns back. 

Never halts on his track ? 

By the Austrians outnumbered, sur- 
rounded, 
On left and on right ; 
Strong 



and fearless 
giant, 



he moves as a 



Who rouses to fight 

From the slumbers of night. 

So, over the paths of Orfano, 
His brave horsemen tread, 

Long after the sun, halting wearied, 
Hath hidden his head 
In his tent-folds of red. 

Every man with his eye on his leader, 
Whom a spell must have bound, 

For he rideth as still as the shadow, 
That keeps step on the ground, 
In a silence profound. 

With the harmony Nature is breathing, 

His soul is in tune ; 
He is bathed in a bath of the splen- 
dor 

Of the beautiful moon, 

Of the air soft as June ! 

But what sound meets the ear of the 
soldier ; 

What menacing tone ?• 
For look ! how the horse and the rider 

Have suddenly grown 

As if carved in stone. 

Leaning down toward that fair grove of 
olives 
He waits ; doth it mean 
That he catches the tramp of the Aus- 
trians, 
^hat his quick eye hath seen 
Their bayonets' sheen ? 

Nay ! there, where the thick leaves 
about her 

By the music are stirred, 
Sits a nightingale singing her rapture, 

And the hero hath heard 

But the voice of a bird ! 



A hero ! aye, more than a hero 

By this he appears ; 
A man, with a heart that is tender, 

Unhardened by years ; 
. Who shall tell what he hears ? 

Not the voice of the nightingale only, 
Floating soft on the breeze, 

But the music of dear human voices, 
And blended with these 
The sound of the seas. 

Ah, the sea, the dear sea ! from the 
cradle 
She took him to rest ; 
Leaping out from the arms of his 
mother, 
He went to her breast 
And was softly caressed. 

Perchance he is back on her bosom, 
Safe from fear or alarms, 

Clasping close as of old that first mis- 
tress 
Whose wonderful charms 
Drew him down to her arms. 

By the memories that come with that 
singing 

His soul has been wiled 
Far away from the danger of battle ; 

Transported, beguiled, 

He again is a child, 

Sitting down at the feet of the mother, 
Whose prayers are the charm 

That ever in conflict and peril 
Has strengthened his arm, 
And kept him from harm. 

Nay, who knows but his spirit that mo- 
ment 
Was gone in its quest 

Of that bright bird of paradise, vanished 
Too soon from the nest 
Where her lover was blest ! 

For unerring the soul finds its kindred, 

Below or above ; 
And, as over the great waste of waters 

To her mate goes the dove, 

So love seeks its love. 

Did he see her first blush, burning 

softly 
His kisses beneath ; 
Or her dear look of love, when he held 

her 



PERSONAL POEMS. 



403 



Disputing with Death 

For the last precious breath ? 

Lost Anita ! sweet vision of beauty. 

Too sacred to tell 
Is the tale of her clear life, that, hidden 

In his heart's deepest cell, 

Is kept safely and well. 

And what matter his dreams ! He 
whose bosom 
With such rapture can glow 
Hath something within him more sacred 

Than the hero may show. 
Or the patriot know. 

And this praise, for man or for hero, 
The best were, in sooth : 

His heart, through life's conflict and 
peril, 
Has kept its first truth. 
And the dreams of its youth. 



JOHN BROWN. 

MEN silenced on his faithful lips 

Words of resistless truth and pow- 
er ; — 

Those words, reechoing now, have made 
The gathering war-cry of the hour. 

They thought to darken down in blood 
The light of freedom's burning rays ; 

The beacon-fires we tend to-day 
Were lit in that undving blaze. 

They took the earthly prop and staff 
Out of an unresisting hand ; 

God came, and led him safely on, 
By ways they could not understand. 

They knew not, when from his old eyes 
They shut the world for evermore, 

The ladder by which angels come 
Rests firmly on the dungeon's floor. 

They deemed no vision bright could 
cheer 

His stony couch and prison ward ; 
He slept to dream of Heaven, and rose 

To build a Bethel to the Lord ! 

They showed to his unshrinking gaze 
The " sentence " men have paled to 
see : 

He read God's writing of " reprieve," 
And grant of endless liberty. 



They tried to conquer and subdue 
By marshaled power and bitter hate ; 

The simple manhood of the man 
Was braver than an armed state. 

They hoped at last to make him feel 
The felon's shame, and felon's dread ; 

And lo ! the martyr's crown of joy 
Settled forever on his head ! 



OTWAY. 

Poet, whose lays our memory still 
Back from the past is bringing, 

Whose sweetest songs were in thy life 
And never in thy singing ; 

For chords thy hand had scarcely 
touched 

By death were rudely broken, 
And poems, trembling on thy lip, 

Alas ! were never spoken. 

We say thy words of hope and cheer 

When hope of ours would languish, 
And keep them always in our hearts 
For comfort in our anguish. 

Yet not for thee we mourn as those 
Who feel by God forsaken ; 

We would rejoice that thou wert lent, 
Nor weep that thou wert taken. 

For thou didst lead us up from earth 

To walk in fields elvsian, 
And show to us the heavenly shore 

In many a raptured vision. 

Thy faith was strong from earth's last 
trial 

The spirit to deliver, 
And throw a golden bridge across 

Death's dark and silent river ; 

A bridge, where fearless thou didst 
pass 

The stern and awful warder, 
And enter with triumphant songs 

Upon the heavenly border. 

Oh, for a harp like thine to sing 
The songs that are immortal ; 

Oh, for a faith like thine to cross 
The everlasting portal ! 

Then might we tell to all the world 
Redemption's wondrous story ; 



404 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



Go down to death as thou didst go, 
And up from death to glory. 



OUR GOOD PRESIDENT. 

Our sun hath gone down at the noon- 
day, 

The heavens are black ; 
And over the morning, the shadows 

Of night-time are back. 

Stop the proud boasting mouth of the 
cannon ; 

Hush the mirth and the shout ; — 
God is God ! and the ways of Jehovah 

Are past finding out. 

Lo ! the beautiful feet on the mount- 
ains, 
That yesterday stood, 
The white feet that came with glad 
tidings 
Are dabbled in blood. 

The Nation that firmly was settling 

The cro^vn on her head, 
Sits like Rizpah, in sackcloth and 
ashes, 

And watches her dead. 

Who is dead ? who, unmoved by our 
wailing, 
Is lying so low ? 
O my Land, stricken dumb in your 
anguish, 
Do you feel, do you know, 

That the hand which reached out of 
the darkness 
Hath taken the whole ; 



Yea, the arm and the head of the peo- 
ple, — 
The heart and the soul ? 

And that heart, o'er whose dread aw- 
ful silence 
A nation has wept ; 
Was the truest, and gentlest, and 
sweetest, 
A man ever kept. 

Why, he heard from the dungeons, the 
rice-fields, 
The dark holds of ships 
Every faint, feeble cry which oppres- 
sion 
Smothered down on men's lips. 

In her furnace, the centuries had 
welded 
Their fetter and chain ; 
And like withes, in the hands of his 
purpose, 
He snapped them in twain. 

Who can be what he was to the peo- 
ple, — 

What he was to the state ? 
Shall the ages bring to us another 

As good and as great ? 

Our hearts with their anguish are 
broken, 

Our wet eyes are dim ; 
For us is the loss and the sorrow, 

The triumph for him ! 

For, ere this, face to face with his 
Father 

Our martyr hath stood ; 
Giving into his hand a white record, 

With its great seal of blood ! 





POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



TO THE CHILDREN. 

Dear little children, where'er you be, 
Who are watched and cherished ten- 
derly 
By father and by mother ; 
Who are comforted by the love that 

lies 
In the kindly depths of a sister's eyes, 
Or the helpful words of a brother : 

I charge you by the years to come, 
When some shall be far away from 
your home, 
And some shall be gone forever ; 
By all you will have to feel at the last, 
When you stand alone and think of 
the past, 
That you speak unkindly never ! 

For cruel words, nay, even less, 
Words spoken only in thoughtless- 
ness, 
Nor kept against you after ; 
If they made the face of a mother 

sad, 
Or a tender sister's heart less glad, 
Or checked a brother's laughter ; 

Will rise again, and they will be heard, 
And every thoughtless, foolish word 

That ever your lips have spoken, 
After the lapse of years and years, 
Will wring from you such bitters tears 

As fall when the heart is broken. 

May you never, never have to say, 
When a wave from the past on some 
dreary dav- 
its wrecks at your feet is strewing, 
" My father had not been bowed so 

low, 
Nor my mother left us long ago, 
But for deeds of my misdoing ! " 



May you never stand alone to weep 
Where a little sister lies asleep, 

With the flowery turf upon her, 
And know you would have gone down 

to the dead 
To save one curl of her shining head 

From sorrow or dishonor : 

Yet have to think, with bitter tears. 
Of some little sin of your childish 
years, 
Till your soul is anguish-riven ; 
And cry, when there comes no word or 

smile, 
" I sinned, but I loved you all the while, 
And I wait to be forgiven ! " 

May you never say of a brother dear, 
" Did I do enough to aid and cheer, 
Did I try to help and guide him ? 
Now the snares of the world about 

him lie, 
And if unhonored he live and die, 
I shall wish I were dead beside 
him ! " 

Dear little innocent, precious ones, 
Be loving, dutiful daughters and sons, 

To father and to mother ; 
And, to save yourselves from the bitter 

pain 
That comes when regret and remorse 
are vain, 
Be good to one another ! 



GRISELDA GOOSE. 

Near to a farm-house, and bordered 
round 

By a meadow, sweet with clover. 
There lay as clear and smooth a pond 

As ever a goose swam over. 



406 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



The farmer had failures in corn and 
hops, 
From drought and various reasons ; 
But his geese had never failed in their 
crops 
In the very worst of seasons. 

And he had a flock, that any day 

Could defy all sneers and slanders ; 
They were certainly handsome, — that 
is to say, 
They were handsome for geese and 
ganders ! 

And, once upon a time, in spring, 
A goose hatched out another, — 

The softest, cunningest, downiest thing, 
That ever gladdened a mother. 

There was never such a gosling born, 
So the geese cried out by dozens ; 

She was praised and petted, night and 
morn, 
By aunts, and uncles, and cousins. 

She must have a name with a lofty 
sounds 
Said all, when they beheld her ; 
So they proudly led her down to the 
pond, 
And christened her, Griselda ! 

Now you think, no doubt, such love 
and pride, 

Must perfectly content her ; 
That she grew to goosehood satisfied 

To be what Nature meant her. 

But folk with gifts will find it out, 
Though the world neglects that 
duty ; 

And a lovely female will seldom doubt, 
Though others may, her beauty ! 

And if she had thought herself a fright, 
And been content with her station, 

She would n't have had a story to write, 
Nor I, my occupation. 

But indeed the truth compels me to 
own, 

Whoever may be offended, 
That my heroine's vanity was shown 

Ere her gosling days were ended. 

When the mother tried to teach the 
art 
Of swimming to her daughter, 



She said that she did n't like to 
start, 
Because it ruffled the water. 

" My stars ! " cried the parent, " do I 
dream, 
Or do I rightly hear her ? 
Can it be she would rather sit still on 
the stream, 
Than spoil her beautiful mirror ? " 

Yet, if any creature could be so 
fond 

Of herself, as to reach insanity, 
A goose, who lives on a glassy pond, 

Has most excuse for such vanity ! 

And I do not agree with those who 
said 

They would glory in her disgraces ; 
Hers is n't the only goose's head 

That ever was turned by praises. 

And Griselda swallowed all their 
praise : 
Though she said to her doting 
mother, 
" Still, a goose is a goose, to the end 
of her days, 
From one side of the world to the 
other ! 

" And as to my name it is well enough 

To say, or sing, or whistle ; 
But you just wait till I 'm old and 
tough, 
And you '11 see they will call me 
Gristle ! " 

So she went, for the most of the time, 
alone, 
Because she was such a scoffer ; 
And, awful to tell ! she was nearly 
grown 
Before she received an offer ! 

" Nobody will have her, that is 
clear," 
Said those who spitefully eyed her ; 
Though they knew every gander, far 
and near, 
Was dying to waddle beside her. 

And some of those that she used to 
slight, 

Now come to matronly honor, 
Began to feel that they had a right 

To quite look down upon her. 



ror.vs for children. 



407 



And some she had jilted were heard to 
declare, 
•• I do not understand her ; 
And 1 should n't wonder, and should n't 
care. 
If she never got a gander ! " 

But she said SO all could overhear, — 
And she hoped their ears might tin- 
gle,— 
u If she could n't marry above their 
sphere. 
She preferred remaining single !" 

She was praised and flattered to her 
face. 
And blamed when she was not pres- 
ent ; 
And between her friends and foes, her 
place 
Was anything but pleasant. 

One day she learned what gave her a 
fright. 
And a fit of deep dejection ; 
And she said to herself, that come 
what might, 
She would cut the whole connection. 

The farmer's wife to the geese pro- 
posed, 
Their spending the day in the sta- 
ble : 
And the younger ones, left out, sup- 
posed 
She would set an extra table. 

So they watched and waited till day 
was done, 
With curiosity burning ; 
For it was n't till after set of sun, 
That they saw them back return- 
ing. 

Slowly they came, and each was 
bowed 
As if some disgrace was upon her ; 
They did n't look as those who are 
proud 
Of an unexpected honor ! 

Each told the naked truth : 't was a 
shock, 
But who that saw, could doubt 
her? 
They had plucked the pluckiest goose 
of the flock. 
Of all the down about her. 



Said Miss Griselda, " That 's my 
doom. 
If I stay another season ; " 
So she thought she'd leave her roost- 
ing room ; 
And I think she had some reason. 

Besides, there was something else she 
feared ; 

For oft in a kind of flurry, 
A goose mysteriously disappeared, 

And did n't come back in a hurry. 

And scattered afterwards on the 
ground, — 

Such things there is no mistaking, — 
Familiar looking bones were found, 

Which set her own a quaking. 

She said, "There is danger if I stay, 
From which there are none ex- 
empted ; 

So, though I perish in getting away, 
The thing shall be attempted." 

And, perfectly satisfied about 
Her claims to a foreign mission, 

She slipped away, and started out 
On a secret expedition. 

And oh ! how her bosom swelled with 
pride ; 

How eager hope upbore her ; 
As floating down the stream, she spied 

A broad lake spread before her. 

And bearing towards her, fair and 
white, 

The pleasant breezes courting, 
A flock of swans came full in sight, 

On the crystal waters sporting. 

She saw the lake spread clear and wide, 
And the rich man's stately dwell- 
ing 

And felt the thrill of hope and pride 
Her very gizzard swelling. 

" These swans," she said, " are quite 
unknown, 

Even to their ranks and stations ; 
Yet I think I need not fear to own 

Such looking birds for relations. 

" Besides, no birds that walk on lawns 
Are made for common uses ; 

Men do not take their pick of swans 
In the way they do of gooses. 



408 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



" Blanch Swan ! I think I '11 take that 
name, 

Nor be ashamed to wear it ; 
Griselda Goose ! that sounds so tame 

And low, I cannot bear it ! " 

Thought she, the brave deserve to win, 

And only they can do it : 
So she made her plan, and sailed right 
in, 

Determined to go through it. 

Straight up she went to the biggest 
swan, 

The one who talked the loudest ; 
For she knew the secret of getting on 

Was standing up with the proudest. 

" Madam," she said, " I am glad you 're 
home, 
And I hope to know you better ; 
You' re an aunt of mine, I think, but I 
come 
With an introductory letter." 

Then she fumbled, and said, " I Ve lost 
the thing ! 
No matter ! I can quote it ; 
And here 's the pen," and she raised 
her wrng, 
" With which Lord Swansdown wrote 
it. 

" Of course you never heard of me, 
As I 'm rather below your station ; 

But a lady famed like yourself, you see, 
Is known to all creation." 

Then to herself the old swan said, 
"Such talk's not reprehensible ; 

Indeed, for a creature country-bred, 
She 's very shrewd and sensible." 

Griselda saw how her flattery took, 
And cried, on the silence breaking, 

" You see I have the family look, 
My neck there is no mistaking. 

" It does n't compare with yours ; you 
know 
I 've a touch of the democracy ; 
While your style and manner plainly 
show 
Your perfect aristocracy." 

Such happy flattery did the thing: 
Though the young swans doubtfully 
eyed her, 



My Lady took her under her wing, 
And kept her close beside her. 



And Griselda tried at ease to appear, 
And forget the home she had 
quitted ; 
For she told herself she had reached a 
sphere 
At last for which she was fitted. 

Though she had some fits of common 
sense, 
And at times grew quite dejected ; 
For she was n't deceived by her own 
pretense, 
And she knew what others suspected. 

If ever she went alone to stray, 

Some pert young swan to tease her 

Would ask, in a patronizing way, 

If their poor home did n't please her ? 

Sometimes when a party went to sail 
On the lake, in pleasant weather, 

As if she was not within the pale, 
She was left out altogether. 

# And then she would take a haughty 
tone, 
As if she scorned them, maybe; 
But often she hid in the weeds alone, 
And cried like a homesick baby. 

One day when she had gone to her 
room, 
With the plea that she was ailing, 
They asked some rather gay birds to 
come 
For the day, and try the sailing. 

But they said, •" She will surely hear 
the stir, 

So we '11 have to let her know it ; 
Of course we are all ashamed of her, 

But it will not do to show it." 

So one of them went to her, and said, 
With a sort of stately rustle : 

"I suppose you would rather spare 
your head 
Than join in our noise and bustle ! 

" If you wish to send the slightest ex- 
cuse, 
I '11 be very happy to take it ; 
And I hope you 're not such a little 
goose 
As to hesitate to make it ! " 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



409 



Too well Griselda understood ; 

And said, "Though my pain's dis- 
tressing. 
I think the change will do me good, 

And 1 do not mind the dressing." 

'Twas the "little goose" that made 
her mad. 
So mad she would n't refuse her ; 
Though she saw from the first how very 
glad 
Her friend would be to excuse her. 

She had overdone the thing, poor swan ! 

As her ill success had shown her ; 
Shot quite beyond the mark, and her 
gun 

Recoiled and hit the owner. 

"Don't you think," she cried, "I've 
done my best ; 

But as sure as I 'm a sinner, 
That little dowdy, frightfully dressed, 

Is coming down to dinner ! 

" I tried in every way to show 

That I thought it an impropriety ; 

But I s'pose the creature does n't know 
The manners of good society ! " 

Griselda thought, ik If it comes to that, 
With the weapon she takes I '11 meet 
her. 

She 's sharp, but I '11 give her tit for tat, 
And I think that I can beat her." 

So she came among them quite at ease, 
By her very look contriving 

To say, " I 'm certain there 's nothing 
could please 
You so much as my arriving." 

And her friend contrived to whisper 
low, 

As she made her genuflexion : 
'■ A country cousin of ours, you know ; 

A very distant connection ! 

" She has n't much of an air, you see, 
And is rather new to the city : 

Aunt took her up quite from charity, 
And keeps her just from pity." 

But Griselda paid her. fair and square, 
For all her sneers and scorning : 

And "the fete was quite a successful 
affair," 
So the papers said next morning. 



And yet she cried at the close of day, 
Till the lake almost ran over. 

To think what a price she had to pay 
To get into a sphere above her. 

" Alas ! " she said, " that our common 
sense 

Should be lost when others flatter ; 
I was born a goose, and no pretense 

Will change or help the matter ! " 

At last she did nothing but mope and 
fret, 

And think of effecting: a clearance ! 
She got as low as a lady can get, — 

She did n't regard her appearance ! 

She got her pretty pink slippers soiled 
By wearing them out in bad weather ; 

And as for her feathers, they were not 
oiled 
Sometimes for a week together. 

Had she seen just how to bring it about, 
She would have left in a minute ; 

But she found it was harder getting 
out 
Of trouble than getting in it. 

She looked down at the fish with en- 
vious eyes, 

Because each mother's daughter, 
Content in her element, never tries. 

To keep her head above water ! 

She wished she was by some good luck, 
Turned into a salmon finny ; 

Into a chicken, or into a cluck : 
She wished herself in Guinea. 

One day the Keeper came to the lake, 
And if he did n't dissemble, 

She saw that to her he meant to take, 
In a way that made her tremble. 

With a chill of fear her feathers 
shook, 
Although to her friend she boasted 
He had such a warm, admiring look, 
That she feared she should be roast- 
ed ; 

And that for very modesty's sake, 

Since nothing else could shield her, 
She would slo to the other end of the 
lake, 
And stay till the night concealed 
her. 



AlO 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



So, taking no leave, she stole away, 
And nobody cared or missed her; 

But the geese on the pond were sur- 
prised, next day, 
By the sight of their missing sister. 

She told them she strayed too far and 
got lost ; 
And though being from home had 
pained her, 
Some wealthy friends that she came 
across, 
Against her will detained her. 

But it leaked from the lake, or a bird 
of the air 
Had carried to them the matter ; 
For even before her, her story was 
there, 
And they all looked doubtfully at 
her. 

Poor Griselda! unprotected, alone, 
By their slights and sneers was 
nettled ; 
For all the friends that her youth had 
known 
Were respectably married and 
settled ; 

Or all but one, — a poor old coot, 
That she used to scorn for a lover ; 

He was shabbier now, and had lost a 
foot, 
That a ( cart-wheel had run over. 

But she said, " There is but one thing 
to be done 

For stopping sneers and slanders ; 
For a lame excuse is better than none, 

And so is the lamest of ganders ! " 

So she married him, but do you know, 

They did not cease to flout her ; 
For she somehow could n't make it 

With herself, nor those about her. 

They spoke of it with scornful lip, 
Though they did n't exactly drop her ; 

As if 't was a limited partnership, 
And not a marriage proper. 

And yet in truth I 'm bound to say 

Her state was a little better; 
Though I heard her friend say yester- 
day 
„ To another one, who met her, — 



" Oh, I saw old Gristle Goose to-night, 
(Of course I did not seek it) ; 

I suppose she is really Mrs. White, 
Though it sticks in my crop to speak 
it ! " 



THE ROBIN'S NEST. 

Jenny Brown has as pretty a house of 
her own 
As ever a bird need to want, I should 
think; 
And the sheltering vine that about it 
had grown, 
Half hid it in green leaves and roses 
of pink. 

As she never looked shabby, or seemed 
out of date, 
It was surely enough, though she 
had but one dress; 
And Robin, the fellow she took for her 
mate, 
Was quite constant — that is, for a 
Robin, I guess. 

Jenny Brown had four birdies, the cun- 
ningest things 
That ever peeped back to a mother- 
bird's call ; 
That only could flutter their soft downy 
wings, 
And open their mouths to take food 
— that was all. 

Now I dare say you think she was 
happy and gay, 
And she was almost always con- 
tented ; but yet, 
Though I know you will hardly be- 
lieve what I say, 
Sometimes she would ruffle her feath- 
ers and fret. 

One day, tired of flying about in the 
heat, 
She came home in her crossest and 
sulkiest mood; 
And though she brought back not a 
morsel to eat, 
She pecked little Robin for crying 
for food. 

Just then Robin came and looked in 
through the trees, 
And saw with a quick glance that all 
was not right, 



POEMS FOR CHILD REX 



411 



But he sung out as cheerful and gay as 
you please : 
••Why, Jenny, dear Jenny, how are 
you to-night ?" 

It made her more angry to see him so 
calm. 
While she suffered all that a bird 
could endure ; 
And she answered, a ' How am I ? ' 
who cares how I am ? 
It is n't you, Robin, for one, I am 
sure ! 

'• You know I 've been tied here day in 
and day out. 
Till I 'm tired almost of my home 
and my life. 
While you — you go carelessly roving 
about. 
And singing to every one else but 
your wife." 

Then Robin replied : k ' Little reason 
you 've got 
To complain of me, Jenny ; wherever 
I roam 
I still think of you, and your quieter 
lot, 
And wish 't was my place to stay 
here at home. 

" And as to my singing, I give you my 
word, 
T is in concert, and always in public, 
beside ; 
For excepting yourself, there is no lady- 
bird 
Knows the softest and lovingest 
notes I have tried. 

"And, Jenny,'' — and here he spoke 
tenderly quite, 
As with head drooped aside he drew 
nearer and stood. — 
" I heard some sad news as I came 
home to-night, 
About our poor neighbors that live 
in the wood. 

"You know Nelly Jay. that wild, 
thoughtless young thing. 
Who takes in her children and home 
no delight, 
But early and late is abroad on the 
wing, 
To chatter and gossip from morning 
till night, — 



" Well, yesterday, just after noon, she 
went out, 
And strayed till the sun had gone 
down in the west ; 
Complaining to some of her friends, 
I 've no doubt, 
Of the trouble she had taking care of 
her nest ; 

"And her sweet little Nelly, — you 've 
seen her. my dear. 
The brightest and sprightliest bird 
of them all. 
The age of our Jenny, I think, very 
near, 
Tumbled out of the nest and was 
killed by the fall. 

" I saw the poor thing lying stiff on the 
ground, 
With its little wing broke and the 
film o'er its eyes. 
While the mother was flying distract- 
edly round 
And startling the wood with her pit- 
eous cries. 

" As I stopped, just to say a kind, com- 
• forting word. 
I thought how my own home was 
guarded and blessed ; 
For, Jenny, my darling, my beauty, my 
bird, 
I knew I should find you content in 
the nest ! 

" And how are our birdies ? — the dear 
little things ; 
How softly and snugly asleep they 
are laid ; 
But don't fold them quite so close un- 
der your wings, 
Or you'll kill them with kindness, 
my pet, I 'm afraid. 

"And, Jenny, I '11 stay with them now, 
— nay, I must, 
While you go out a moment, and take 
the fresh air : 
You sit here too much by yourself, I 
mistrust, 
And are quite overburdened with 
work and with care. 

" What, you don't want to go ! you 
want nothing so long 
As your dear little ones and your 
Robin are here ? 



412 THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 


Then I '11 stay with you, Jenny, and 


And make thee, when changes 


sing the old song 


And sorrows shall come, 


I sang when I courted you — shall I, 


The comfort and sweetness 


my dear ? " 


And sunshine of home ! 




BABY'S RING. 


RAIN AND SUNSHINE. 






Mother 's quite distracted, 


I was out in the country 


Sister 's in despair ; 


To feel the sweet spring, 


All the household is astir, 


I was out in the country 


Searching everywhere. 


To hear the birds sing ; 


Every nook must be explored, 


To bask in the sunshine, 


Every corner scanned — 


Breathe air pure and sweet, 


Baby 's lost the tiny ring 


And walk where the blossoms 


From her little hand". 


Grew under my feet. 






Surely never such a babe 


So at morning I woke 


Made a mother glad ; 


While my chamber was dark, 


Never such a dainty hand 


And was up — or I should have been — 


Any baby had ! 


Up with the lark, 


Smallest ring was ever made 


Only no lark was rising ; 


Off her finger slips ; 


And never a throat 


She should have a fairy's ring 


Of bird since the morning 


For such rosy tips. 


Had uttered a note. 






When she comes to womanhood, 


It was raiifing, and sadly 


If she keeps so fair, 


I gazed on the skies. 


She will surely wear the ring 


Saying, " Nothing is left us 


Maidens love to wear : 


To gladden our eyes ; 


And lest she should lose it then, 


And no pleasanter sound 


(She '11 be wise and deep) 


Than this drip on the pane ! " 


She will give to somebody 


When I caught a soft patter 


Ring and hand to keep. 


That was not the rain. 




First I heard the light falling 




Of feet on the stair, 


DON'T GIVE UP. 


Then the voice of a child 




Ringing clear through the air, 


If you tried and have not won, 


And with eyes wide awake, 


Never stop for crying ; 


And curls tumbled about, 


All that 's great and good is done 


Came Freddy, the darling, 


Just by patient trying. 


With laugh and with shout. 






Though young birds, in flying, fall, 


No longer we heeded 


Still their wings grow stronger ; 


The rain or the gloom ; 


And the next time they can keep 


His smile, like the sunshine, 


Up a little longer. 


Illumined the room ; 




We missed not the birds 


Though the sturdy oak has known 


While his glad voice was nigh : 


Many a blast that bowed her, 


His lips were our roses, 


She has risen again, and grown 


His eyes were our sky. 


Loftier and prouder. 


Sweet pet of the household, 


If by easy work you beat, 


And hope of each heart, 


Who the more will prize you ? 


God keep thee, dear Freddy, 


Gaining victory from defeat, 


As pure as thou art, 


That 's the test that tries you ! 



MS FOR CHILDREN. 



413 



THE coon LITTLE SISTER. 

Tn it was .1 bitter winter 

When Jenny was tour years old 
And lived in a lonely farm-house — 

Hitter, and long, and cold. 

The crops had been a failure — 

In the barns there was room to spare ; 

And Jenny's hard-working father 
Was full of anxious care. 

Neither his wife nor children 
Knew lack of fire or bread : 

They had whatever was needful. 

Were sheltered, and clothed, and 
fed. 

But the mother, alas ! was ailing — 
'T was a struggle just to live ; 

And they scarce had even hopeful 
words. 
Or cheerful smiles to give. 

A good, kind man was the father, 
He loved his girls and boys ; 

But he whose hands are his riches 
Has little for gifts and toys. 

So when it drew near the season 
That makes the world so glad — 

When Jenny knew 't was the time for 
gifts, 
Her childish heart was sad. 

For she thought, " I shall get no pres- 
ent 
When Christmas comes, I am sure ; " 

Ah ! the poor man's child learns early- 
Just what it means to be poor. 

Yet still on the holy even 

As she sat by the hearth-stone 
bright. 
And her sister told good stories, 

Her heart grew almost light. 

For the hopeful skies of childhood 

Are never quite o'ercast : 
And she said, " Who knows but some- 
how, 

Something will come at last ! " 

Lo, before she went to her pillow, 
Her pretty stockings were tied 

Safely together and slyly hung, 
Close to the chimney side. 



There was little room for hoping, 
One would say who had lived m< 
years : 

Yet the faith of the child is wiser 

Sometimes than our doubts and fears. 

Jenny had a good little sister, 

Very big to her childish e\ 
Who was womanly, sweet, and patient, 

And kind as she was wise. 

And she had thought of this Christmas, 
And the little it could bring, 

Ever since the crops were half de- 
stroyed 
By the freshet in the spring. 

So the sweetest nuts of the autumn 
She had safely hidden away ; 

And the ripest and reddest apples 
Hoarded for many a day. 

And last she mixed some seed-cakes 

(Jenny was sleeping then), 
And moulded them grotesquely, 

Like birds, and beasts, and men. 

Then she slipped them into the stock- 
ings, 
And smiled to think about 
The joyful wonder of her pet, 

When she found and poured them 
out. 

And you could n't have seen next 
morning 

A gladder child in the land 
Than that humble farmer's daughter, 

With her simple gifts in her hand. 

And the loving sister? ah ! you know 

How blessed 'tis to give ; 
And they who think of others most 

Are the happiest folks that live ! 

She had done what she could, my chil- 
dren. 

To brighten that Christmas Day ; 
And whether her heart or Jenny's 

Was lightest, it is hard to say. 

And this, if you have but little, 
Is what I would say to you : 

Make all you can of that little — 
Do all the good you can do. 

And though your gifts may be humble, 
Let no little child, I pray, 



414 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE GARY. 



Find only an empty stocking 

On the morn of the Christmas Day ! 

'T is years and years since that sister 
Went to dwell with the just ; 

And over her body the roses 
Blossom and turn to dust. 

And Jenny 's a happy woman, 

With wealth enough and to spare ; 

And every year her lap is filled 
With presents fine and rare. 

But whenever she thanks the givers 



For favors great and small, 

le thinks of the good little sister 

Who gave her more than they all ! 



NOW. 

If something waits, and you should 
now 

Begin and go right through it, 
Don't think, if 't is put off a day, 

You '11 not mind to do it. 

Waste noj: moments, no nor words, 
In telling what you could do 

Some other time ; the present is 
For doing what you should do. 

Don't do right unwillingly, 

And stop to plan and measure ; 

'T is working with the heart and soul, 
That makes our duty pleasure. 



THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE. 

A little downy chicken one day 
Asked leave to go on the water, 

Where she saw a duck with her brood 
at play, 
Swimming and splashing about her. 

Indeed, she began to peep and cry, 
When her mother wouldn't let her : 

" If the ducks can swim there, why 
can't I ; 
Are they any bigger or better ? " 

Then the old hen answered, " Listen to 
me, 

And hush your foolish talking ; 
Just look at your feet, and you will see 

They were only made for walking." 



But chicky wistfully eyed the brook, 
And did n't half believe her, 

For she seemed to say, by a knowing 
look, 
" Such stories couldn't deceive her." 

And as her mother was scratching the 
ground, 
She muttered lower and lower, 
"I know Lean go there and not be 
drowned, 
And so I think I '11 show her." 

Then she made a plunge, where the 
stream was deep, 

And saw too late her blunder ; 
For she had n't hardly time to peep 

Till her foolish head went under. 

And now I hope her fate will show 
The child, my story reading, 

That those who are older sometimes 
know 
What you will do well in heeding, 

That each content in his place should 
dwell, 

And envy not his brother ; 
And any part that is acted well, 

Is just as good as another. 

For we all have our proper sphere be- 
low, 
And this is a truth worth knowing. 
You will come to grief if you try to go 
Where you never were made for 
going ! 



EFFIE'S REASONS. 

Tell me, Effie, while you are sitting, 

Cosily beside me here, 
Talking all about your brothers, 

Which you like the best, my dear. 

" Tom is good sometimes," said Effie, 
" Good as any boy can be ; 

But at other times he does n't 
Seem to care a bit for me. 

" Half the days he will not help me, 
Though the way to school is rough ; 

Nor assist me with my lessons, 
When he knows them well enough. 

" But, of course, I love him dearly — 
He 's a brother like the rest, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



415 



Though I know he 's not the best one ; 
And I do not love him best 

'• Now there *s Charlie, ray big brother, 
Oh ! he 's always just as kind ! 

All day I may ask him questions, 
And he does n't seem to mind. 

•' He with every lesson helps me, 
sure to take my part ; 
i think I ought to love him — 
And 1 do with all my heart. 

" But there 's cunning little Neddy — 
Well, he's not so awful good ; 

But he never seems to mean it 
When he answers cross or rude. 

■ metimes, half in fun, he strikes me, 
Just. I mean, a little blow : 
But he 'd never, never do it 
If he thought it hurt, I know. 

"Then again he 's nice and pleasant, 
Coaxing me and kissing me ; 

When he wants to ask a favor, 
He's as good as he can be. 

" He can't help me with my lessons, 
He has hardly learned to spell ; 

But in everything I help him, 
And I like it just as well. 

" He is never good as Charlie ; 

Naughtier oft than Tom, I know ; 
But for all that I love him, 

Just because I love him so ! " 



FEATHERS. 

You restless, curious little Jo, 

I have told you all the stories I know, 

Written in poem or fable : 
I have turned them over, and let you 

look 
At everything like a picture-book 

Upon my desk or table. 

I think it 's enough to drive one wild 
To be shut up with a single child, 

And try for a day to please her. 
Oh, dear me ! what does a mother do, 
Especially one who lives in a shoe, 

And has a dozen to tease her ? 

" Aha ! I 've found the very thing," 
I cried, as I saw the beautiful wing 



of .1 bird, and I said demurely: 
" Now. it you '11 be good the rest of the 

day, 
I '11 give you a bird with which to play ; 

You know what a bird is, surd\ 

"Oh, yes ! " and she opened wide her 

eyes, 
" A bird is alive, and sings and Hies ; " 

Then, folding her hands together, 
She archly shook her wise little head, 
And, looking very innocent, said, 

" I know a bird from a feather ! " 

Well ! of all the smart things uttered 

yet 
By a baby three years old, my pet ! 

It 's enough to frighten your mother. 
Why, I 've seen women — yes, and 

men, 
Who have lived for threescore years 

and ten, 
Who did n't know one from the 

other ! 

Xow there is Kitty, past sixteen — 
The one with the soldier beau, I mean — 

When he makes his bayonet rattle, 
And acts so bravely on parade, 
She thinks he would n't be afraid 

In the very front of battle. 

But yet, if I were allowed to guess, 
I should say her soldier was all in the 
dress, 
And you '11 find my guess is the right 
one. 
If ever he has to meet the foe, 
The first, and only feather he '11 show 
That day will be a white one. 

There 's Mrs. Pie, in her gorgeous 

plumes ; 
Why, half the folks who visit her 
rooms, 
Because she is dressed so finely 
And holds herself at the highest price, 
Pronounce her a bird of paradise, 
And say she sings divinely ; 

While many a one, with a sweeter lay, 
Because her feathers are plain and 
gray, 
The world's approval misses, 
And only gets its scorn and abuse ; 
She is called a failure, and called a 
goose, 
And her song is met with hisses. 



416 



THE POEMS OF PHQZBE CARY. 



Men will stick as many plumes on 

their head 
As an Indian chief who has bravely 

shed 
The blood of a hostile nation, 
When all the killing they 've done or 

seen 
Was killing themselves — that is, I 

mean 
In the public estimation. 

When Tom to his pretty wife was wed, 
" She 's fuss and feathers," people 
said, 
That any woman could borrow ; 
And sure enough, her feathers fell, 
Though the fuss was the genuine arti- 
cle, 
As Tom has found to his sorrow. 

When Mrs. Butterfly, who was a grub, 
First got her wings, she was such a 
snob, 

She scorned the folks around her, 
And made, as she said, the feathers fly ; 
But when she fell, she had gone so high, 

She was smashed as flat as a flounder. 

Alas, alas ! my little Jo, 

I 'm sorry to tell it, and sorry it 's so ; 

But as to deceiving, I scorn to. 
And I only hope that when you are 

grown 
You will keep the wonderful wisdom 
you 've shown, 
Nor lose the wit you were born to. 

But whether folks, so wise when they 're 

small, 
Can ever live to grow up at all, 

Is one "of the doubtful whethers. 
I 'm sure it happens but seldom, 

though, 
Or there wouldn't be so many, you 
know, 
Who can't tell birds from feathers. 



THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE. 

The long grass burned brown 

In the summer's fierce heat, 
Snaps brittle and dry 

'Neath the traveler's feet, 
As over the prairie, 

Through all the long day, 
His white, tent-like wagon 

Moves slow on its way. 



Safe and snug with the goods 

Are the little ones stowed, 
And the big boys trudge on 

By the team in the road ; 
While his sweet, patient wife, 

With the babe on her breast, 
Sees their new home in fancy, 

And longs for its rest. 

But hark ! in the distance 

That dull, trampling tread ; 
And see how the sky 

Has grown suddenly red ! 
What has lighted the west 

At the hour of noon ? 
It is not the sunset, 

It is not the moon ! 

The horses are rearing 

And snorting with fear, 
And over the prairie 

Come flying the deer 
With hot smoking haunches, 

And eyes rolling back, 
As if the fierce hunter 

Were hard on their track. 

The mother clasps closer 

The babe on her arm, 
While the children cling to her 

In wildest alarm ; 
And the father speaks low 

As the red light mounts higher 
" We are lost ! we are lost ! 

'T is the prairie on fire ! " 

The boys, terror-stricken, 

Stand still, all but one : 
He has seen in a moment 

The thing to be done ; 
He has lighted the grass, 

The quick flames leap in air ; 
And the pathway before them 

Lies blackened and bare. 

How the fire-fiend behind 

Rushes on in his power ; 
But nothing is left 

For his wrath to devour. 
On the scarred smoking earth ' 

They stand safe, every one, 
While the flames in the distance 

Sweep harmlessly on. 

Then reverently under 
The wide sky they kneel, 

With spirits too thankful 
To speak what they feel ; 



MS FOR CHILDREN. 



417 



But the father in silence 
Is blessing his boy, 

While the mother and children 
Are weeping for joy. 



DAPPLEDUN. 

A little bov who, strange to say, 
Was called by the name of John. 

Once bought himself a little horse 
To ride behind, and upon. 

A handsomer beast you never saw, 

He was so sleek and fat ; 
" He has but a single fault/' said John, 
And a trifling one at that." 

His mane and tail grew thick and long, 
He was quick to trot or run ; 

His coat was yellow, rlecked with 
brown : 
John called him Dappledun. 

He never kicked and never bit ; 

In harness well he drew ; 
But this was the single foolish thing 

That Dappledun would do. 

He ran in clover up to his knee«, 
His trough was filled with stuff: 

Vet he 'd jump the neighbor's fence, 
and act 
As if he had n't enough. 

If he only could have been content 
With his feed of oats and hav, 

Poor headstrong, foolish Dappledun 
Had been alive to-day. 

But one night when his rack was filled 

With what he ought to eat, 
He thrust his nose out of his stall, 

And into a bin of wheat. 

And there he ate, and ate, and ate, 
And when he reached the tank 

Where Johnny watered him next morn, 
He drank, and drank, and drank. 

And when that night John carried him 
The sweet hay from the rick, 

He lay and groaned, and groaned, and 
groaned, 
For Dappledun was sick. 

And when another morning came 
And John rose from hisbed 

27 



And went to water Dappledun, 
Poor Dappledun was dead ! 



SUPPOSE! 

Suppose, my little lady, 

Your doll should break her head, 
Could you make it whole by crying 

Till your eyes and nose are red ? 
And would n't it be pleasanter 

To treat it as a joke ; 
And say you 're glad " T was Dolly's 

And not your head that broke ? " 

Suppose you 're dressed for walking. 

And the rain comes pouring down. 
Will it clear off any sooner 

Because you scold and frown ? 
And would 'n't it be nicer 

For you to smile than pout, 
And so make sunshine in the house 

When there is none without ? 

Suppose your task, my little man, 

Is very hard to get, 
Will it make it any easier 

For you to sit and fret ? 
And would n't it be wiser 

Than waiting like a dunce, 
To go to work in earnest 

And learn the thing at once ? 

Suppose that some boys have a horse, 

And some a coach and pair. 
Will it tire you less while walking 

To say, " It is n't fair?" 
And would n't it be nobler 

To keep your temper sweet, 
And in your heart be thankful 

You can walk upon your feet ? 

And suppose the world don't please 
you, 

Nor the way some people do, 
Do you think the whole creation 

Will be altered just for you ? 
And is n't it, my boy or girl, 

The wisest, bravest plan, 
Whatever comes, or does n't come, 

To do the best you can ? 



A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND. 

Away, away in the Northland, 

Where the hours of the day are few, 



4i8 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



And the nights are so long in winter, 
They cannot sleep them through ; 

Where they harness the swift reindeer 
To the sledges, when it snows ; 

And the children look like bear's cubs 
In their funny, furry clothes : 

They tell them a curious story — 

I don't believe 't is true ; 
And yet you may learn a lesson 

If I tell the tale to you. 

Once, when the good Saint Peter 

Lived in the world below, 
And walked about it, preaching, 

Just as he did, you know ; 



He came to the door of a cottage, 
In traveling round the earth, 

Where a little woman was making 
cakes, 
And baking them on the hearth ; 

And being faint with fasting, 
For the day was almost done, 

He asked her, from her store of cakes, 
To give riim a single one. 

So she made a very little cake, 

But as it baking lay, 
She looked at it, and thought it seemed 

Too large to give away. 

Therefore she kneaded another, 

And still a smaller one ; 
But it looked, when she turned it 
over, 

As large as the first had done. 

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, 
And rolled and rolled it flat ; 

And baked it thin as a wafer — 
But she could n't part with that. 

For she said, " My cakes that seem too 
small 

When I eat of them myself, 
Are yet too large to give away." 

So she put them on the shelf. 

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, 
For he was hungry and faint ; 

And surely such a woman 

Was enough to provoke a saint. 

And he said, " You are far too selfish 
To dwell in a human form, 



To have both food and shelter, 
And fire to keep you warm. 

" Now, you shall build as the birds do, 
And shall get your scanty food 

By boring, and boring, and boring, 
All day in the hard dry wood." 

Then up she. went through the chim- 
ney, 

Never speaking a word, 
And out of the top flew a woodpecker, 

For she was changed to a bird. 

She had a scarlet cap on her head, 
And that was left the same, 

But all the rest of her clothes were 
burned 
Black as a coal in the flame. 

And every country school-boy 

Has seen her in the wood ; 
Where she lives in the trees till this 
very day, 

Boring and boring for food. 

And this is the lesson she teaches : 

Live not for yourself alone, 
Lest the needs you will not pity 

Shall one day be your own. 

Give plenty of what is jgiven to you, 

Listen to pity's call ; 
Don't think the little you give is great, 

And the much you get is small. 

Now, my little boy, remember that, 
And try to be kind and good, 

When you see the woodpecker's sooty 
dress, 
And see her scarlet hood. 

You mayn't be changed to a bird, 
though you live 
As selfishly as you can ; 
But you will be changed to a smaller 
thing — 
A mean and selfish man. 



EASY LESSONS. 

Come, little children, come with me, 
Where the winds are singing merrily, 

As they toss the crimson clover ; 
'We '11 walk on the hills and by the 
brooks, 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN. 



4*9 



And I "11 show you stories in prettier 
books 
Than the ones you are poring over. 

Do you think you could learn to sing a 
SOI 

Though you drummed and hummed it 
all day long. 
Till hands' and brains were aching, 
That would match the clear, untutored 

notes 
That drop from the pretty, tender 
throats 
Of birds, when the day is breaking ? 

Did you ever read, on any p 
Though written with all the wisdom of 
age. 
And all the truth of preaching, 
Any lesson that taught you so plain 
Content with your humble work and 
gain. 
As the golden bee is teaching ? 

For see, as she floats on her airy wings, 
How she sings and works, and works 
and sings, 

Never stopping nor staying : 
Showing us clearly what to do 
To make of duty a pleasure, too, 

And to make our work but playing. 

Do you suppose that a book can tell 
Maxims of prudence, half so well 
As the little ant. who is telling 
To man, as she patiently goes and 

comes, 
Bearing her precious grains and 
crumbs. 
How want is kept from the d well- 



Whatever a story can teach to you 
Of the good a little thing may do, 

The hidden brook is showing, 
Whose quiet way is only seen 
Because of its banks, so fresh and 
green, 

And the flowers beside it growing. 

If we go where the golden lily grows, 
Where, clothed in raiment fine, she 
glows 
Like a king in all his glory, 
And ponder over each precious leaf, 
We shall find there, written bright and 
brief, 
The words of a wondrous story. 



We shall learn the beautiful lesson 

there 
That our Heavenly Father's loving 
care, 
Even the lily winneth : 
For rich in beauty thus she stands, 
Arrayed by his gracious, tender hands, 
Though she toileth not, nor spinneth. 

There is n't a blossom under our feet. 
But has some teaching, short and 
sweet. 
That is richly worth the knowing ; 
And the roughest hedge, or the sharp- 
est thorn, 
Is blest with a power to guard or warn, 
If we will but heed its showing. 

So do not spoil your happy looks 
By poring always over your books, 

Written by scholars and sages ; 
For there 's many a lesson in brooks or 

birds, 
Told in plainer and prettier words 

Than those in your printed pages. 

And yet, I would not have you think 
No wisdom comes through pen and 
ink, 
And all books are dull and dreary ; 
For not all of life can be pleasant 

play, 
Nor every day a holiday, 

And tasks must be hard and weary. 

And that is the very reason why 
I would have you learn from earth and 
sky 
Their lessons of good, and heed 
them : 
For there our Father, with loving hand, 
Writes truths that a child may under- 
stand. 
So plain that a child can read them. 



OBEDIENCE. 

If you 're told to do a thing, 
And mean to do it really ; 

Never let it be by halves ; 
Do it fully, freely ! 

Do not make a poor excuse, 
Waiting, weak, unsteady ; 

All obedience worth the name, 
Must be prompt and ready. 



420 



THE POEMS OF PHOEBE CARY. 



THE CROW'S CHILDREN. 

A huntsman, bearing his gun a-field, 

Went whistling merrily ; 
When he heard the blackest of black 
crows 

Call out from a withered tree : 

" You are going to kill the thievish 
birds, 

And I would if I were you ; 
But you mus n't touch my family, 

Whatever else you do ! " 

" I 'm only going to kill the birds 
That are eating up my crop ; 

And if your young ones do such things, 
Be sure they '11 have to stop." 

" Oh," said the crow, " my children 
Are the best ones ever born ; 

There is n't one among them all 
Would steal a grain of corn." 

" But how shall I know which ones 
they are ? 
Do they resemble you ? " 
" Oh no," said the crow, " they're the 
prettiest birds, 
And the whitest that ever flew ! " 

So off went the sportsman, whistling, 
And off, too, went his gun ; 

And its startling echoes never ceased 
Again till the day was done. 



And the old crow sat untroubled, 
Cawing away in her nook ; 

For she said, " He '11 never kill 
birds, 
Since I told him how they look. 



my 



" Now there 's the hawk, my neighbor, 
She '11 see what she will see, soon ; 

And that saucy whistling blackbird 
May have to change his tune ! " 

When, lo ! she saw the hunter 
Taking his homeward track, 

With a string of crows as long as his 
gun, 
Hanging down his back. 

" Alack, alack ! " said the mother, 
" What in the world have you done ? 

You promised to spare my pretty birds, 
And you 've killed them every one." 



"Your birds ! " said the puzzled hunter ; 

"Why, I found them in my corn ; 
And besides, they are black and ugly 

As any that ever were born ! " 

" Get out of my sight, you stupid ! " 
Said the angriest of crows ; 

" How good and fair her children are, 
There 's none but a parent knows ! " 

" Ah ! I see, I see," said the hunter, 
" But not as you do, quite ;• 

It takes a mother to be so blind 
She can't tell black from white ! " 



HIVES AND HOMES. 

When March has gone with his cruel 
wind, 
That frightens back the swallow, 
And the pleasant April sun has shined 
Out through her showery clouds, we 
find 
Pale blooms in the wood and hollow. 

But after the darling May awakes, 
Bedecked with flowers like a fairy ; 

About the meadows and streams and 
lakes 

She drops them every step she takes, 
For she has too many to carry. 

And when June has set in the leafy 
trees 

Her bird-tunes all a-ringing, 
Wherever a blossom nods in the breeze 
The good, contented, cheerful bees 

Are found at work and singing. 

Ah, the wise little bees ! they know 
how to live, 
Each one in peace with his neighbor ; 
For though they dwell in a narrow 

hive, 
They never seem too thick to thrive, 
Nor so many they spoil their labor. 

And well may they sing a pleasant tune, 
Since their life has such complete- 
ness ; 
Their hay is made in the sun of June, 
And every moon is a honeymoon, 
And home a home of sweetness. 

The golden belts they wear each day 
Are lighter than belts of money ; 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN 



42 1 



And making work as pleasant as play. 
The stings o\ life they give away, 
And only keep the honey. 

They are teaching lessons, good and 
true. 
To each idle drone and beauty, 
I, niv youthful friends, if any of you 
Should "think (though, of course, you 
never do) 
Of love, and home, and duty — 

And vet it often happens, you know, 

True to the very letter. 
That youths and maidens, when they 

grow. 
Swarm off from the dear old hive and go 

To another, for worse or better ! 

So you 'd better learn that this life of 
ours 
Is not all show and glitter. 
And skillfully use your nobfest powers 
To suck the sweets from its poison 
flowers. 
And leave behind the bitter. 

But wherever you stay, or wherever you 
roam. 
In the days while you live in clover, 
You should gather your honey and 

bring it home. 
Because the winter will surely come, 
When the summer of life is over. 



NORA'S CHARM. 

: T was the fisher's wife at her neigh- 
bor's door. 
And she cried, as she wrung her 
hands, 
'• O Nora, get your cloak and hood, 
And haste with me o'er the sands." 

Now a kind man was the fisherman, 

And a lucky man was he ; 
And never a steadier sailed away 

From the Bay of Cromarty. 

And the wife had plenty on her board, 
And the babe in her arms was fair ; 

But her heart was always full of fear, 
And her brow was black with care. 

And she stood at her neighbor's door 
and cried, 
" Oh, woe is me this night ! 



For the fairies have stolen my pretty 
babe. 
And left me an ugly sprite. 

" My prettv babe, that was more than 
all 
The wealth of the world to me ; 
With his coral lips, and his hair of 
gold, 
And his teeth like pearls of the sea ! 

" I went to look for his father's boat, 
When I heard the stroke of the 
oar ; 

And I left him cooing soft in his bed, 
As the bird in her nest by the door. 

" And there was the father fair in sight, 
And pulling hard to the land ; 

And my foot was back o'er the sill 
again, 
Ere his keel had struck the sand. 

" But the fairies had time to steal my 
babe, 

And leave me in his place 
A restless imp, with a wicked grin, 

And never a smile on his face." 

And Nora took her cloak and hood, 

And softly by the hand 
She led the fisher's wife through the 
night, 

Across the yellow sand. 

" Nay, do not rave, and talk so wild ; " 
'T was Nora thus that spoke ; 

" We must have our wits to work 
against 
The arts of fairy folk. 

" There 's a charm to help us in our 
need, 
But its power we cannot try, 
With the black cloud hanging o'er the 
brow, 
And the salt tear in the eye. 

" For wicked things may gibe and grin 
With noisy jeer and shout ; 

But the joyous peal of a happy laugh 
Has power to drive them out. 

" And if this sprite we can but please, 
Till he laughs with merry glee, 

We shall break the spell that holds 
him here, 
And keeps the babe from your knee." 



4 22 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



So the mother wiped her tears away, 

And patiently and long 
They plied the restless, stubborn imp 

With cunning trick and song. 

They blew a blast on the fisher's 
horn, 

Each curious prank they tried ; 
They rocked the cradle where he lay, 

As a boat is rocked on the tide. 

But there the hateful creature kept, 
In place of the human child ; 

And never once his writhing ceased, 
And never once he smiled. 

Then Nora cried, " Take yonder egg 

That lies upon the shelf, 
And make of it two hollow cups, 

Like tiny cups of delf." 

And the mother took the sea-mew's 

egg, 
And broke in twain the shell, 
And made of it two tiny cups, 
And filled them at the well. 

She filled them up as Nora bade, 
And set them on the coals : 

And the imp grew still, for he ne'er had 
seen 
In fairy-land such bowls. 

And when the water bubbled and 
boiled, 
Like a fountain in its play, 
Mirth bubbled up to his lips, and he 
laughed 
Till he laughed himself away ! 

And the mother turned about, and 
¥elt 
The heart in her bosom leap ; 
For the imp was gone, and there in his 
place 
Lay her baby fast asleep. 

And Nora said to her neighbor, " Now 
There sure can be no doubt 

But a merry heart and a merry laugh 
Drive evil spirits out ! 

" And who can say but the dismal 
frown 
And the doleful sigh are the sin 
That keeps the good from our homes 
and hearts, 
And lets the evil in ! " 



THEY DID N'T THINK. 

Once a trap was baited 

-With a piece of cheese ; 
It tickled so a little mouse 

It almost made him sneeze ; 
An old rat said, " There 's danger. 

Be careful, where you go ! " 
" Nonsense ! " said the other, 

" I don't think you know ! " 
So he walked in boldly — 

Nobody in sight ; 
First he took a nibble, 

Then he took a bite ; 
Close the trap together' 

Snapped as quick as wink, 
Catching mousey fast there, 

'Cause he did n't think. 

Once a little turkey, 

Fond of her own way, 
Would n't ask the old ones 

Where to go or stay ; 
She said, " I 'm not a baby, 

Here I am half -grown ; 
Surely I am big enough 

To run about alone ! " 
Off she went, but somebody 

Hiding saw her pass ; 
Soon like snow her feathers 

Covered all the grass. 
So she made a supper 

For a sly young mink, 
'Cause she was so headstrong 

That she would n't think. 

Once there was a robin 

Lived outside the door, 
Who wanted to go inside 

And hop upon the floor 
" Ho, no," said the mother, 

" You must stay with me ; 
Little birds are safest 

Sitting in a tree." 
" I don't care," said Robin, 

And gave his tail a fling, 
" I don't think the old folks 

Know quite everything." 
Down he flew, and Kitty seized him,. 

Before. he 'd time to blink. 
" Oh," he cried, " I 'm sorry, 

But I did n't think." 

Now, my little children, 

You who read this song, 
Don't you see what trouble 

Comes of thinking wrong? 



POEMS FOK CIIII.DRE.X 



423 






And can't you take a warning 

From their dreadful late 
Who began their thinking 

When it was too late ? 
Don't think there \s always safety 

Where no danger shows. 
Don't suppose you know more 

Than anybody knows ; 
But when you re warned of ruin, 

Pause upon the brink. 
And don't go under headlong, 

'Cause you did n't think. 



AJAX. 

Old Ajax was a faithful dog. 

Of the best and bravest sort ; 
And we made a friend and pet of him, 

And called him *• J ax, " for short. 
He served us well for many a year, 

But at last there came a day 
When, a superannuated dog, 

In the sun he idly lay. 

And though as kindly as before 

He still was housed and fed, 
We brought a younger, sprightlier dog 

For service in his stead. 
Poor " Jax ! " he knew and felt it all, 

As well as you or I ; 
He laid his head on his trembling paws, 

And his whine was like a cry. 

And then he rose : he would not stay- 
Near where the intruder stayed : 

He took the other side of the house, 
Though that was in the shade. 

And he never answered when we called, 
He would not touch his bone ; 

'T was more than he could bear to have 
A rival near his throne. 

We tried to soothe his wounded pride 

By every kindly art : 
But if ever creature did. poor "Jax" 

Died of a broken heart. 
Alas ! he would not learn the truth, 

He was not still a pup ; 
That every dog must have his day, 

And then must give it up ! 



"KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP!" 

There has something gone wrong 
My brave boy. it appears, 



For 1 see your proud struggle 

To keep back the tears. 
That is right. When you cannot 

(iive trouble the slip. 

Then bear it, still keeping 

A stiff upper lip ! M 

Though you cannot escape 

Disappointment and care, 
The next best thing to do 

Is to learn how to bear. 
If when for life's prizes 

You 're running, you trip, 
Get up, start again — 

•* Keep a stiff upper lip ! " 

Let your hands and your conscience 

Be honest and clean : 
Scorn to touch or to think of 

The thing that is mean ; 
But hold on to the pure 

And the right with firm grip, 
And though hard be the task, 

" Keep a stiff upper lip ! " 

Through childhood, through manhood, 

Through life to the end, 
Struggle bravely and stand 

By your colors, my friend. 
Only yield when you must ; 

Never "give up the ship," 
But fight on to the last 

" With a stiff upper lip ! " 



WHAT THE FROGS SING. 

" I ? VEgot such a cold I cannot sing," 
Said a bull-frog living close to the 

spring, — 
" And it keeps me all the time so hoarse, 
That my voice is very bass of course. 
I hate to live in this nasty bog ; 
It is n't fit for a decent frog : 
Now there 's that bird, just hear the 

note 
So soft and sweet, from out her throat." 
He said, as a thrush in the tree above 
Was trilling her liquid song of love : 
" And what pretty feathers on her back, 
W r hile mine is mottled, yellow and 

black : 
And then for moving she has her wings, 
They must be very handy things ; — 
And this all comes, as one may see, 
Just from living up in a tree ; 
She 'd look as queer as I do, I '11 bet, 
If she had to live down here in the wet, 



424 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



And be as hoarse, if doomed to tramp 
About all day where her feet got damp. 

" As the world is managed, I do declare, 
Things do not seem exactly fair ; 
For instance, here on the ground I lie, 
While the bird lives up there, high and 

dry; 
Some frogs may n't care, perhaps they 

don't, 
But I can't stand such things and I 

won't ; 
So I '11 see if I can 't make a rise. 
Who knows what he can do till he 

tries ? " 

So this cunning frog he winked his eye, 
He was lying low and playing sly ; 
For he did not want the frogs about 
To find his precious secret out : 
But when they were all in the mud 

a-bed, 
And the thrush in her wing had hid her 

head, 
Then Mr. Bull his legs uncurled, 
And began to take a start in the world. 
'T was from the foot of the tree to hop, 
But how was. he to reach the top ? 
For it was n't fun, as he learned in time, 
To climb with feet not made to climb ; 
And twenty times he fell on his head, 
But he would n't give it up, he said, 
For nobody saw him in the dark. 
So he clutched once more at the scraggy 

bark, 
And just as the stars were growing dim, 
He sat and swung on the topmost limb ; 
He was damp with sweat from foot to 

head ; 
" Why it 's wet enough up here," he said, 
" And I 've been nicely fooled, I see, 
In thinking it dry to live in a tree. 
Why what with the rain, and with the 

dews, 
I shall have more water than I can 

use ! " 
And so he sat there, gay as a grig, 
And saw the sun rise bright and big ; 
And when he caught the thrush's note, 
He, too, began to tune his throat ; 
But his style of music seemed to sound 
Even worse than it did on the ground ; 
So all the frightened birds took wing, 
And he felt, himself, that it was n't the 

thing, 
Though he said, " I don't believe what 

I 've heard 
That a frog in a tree won't be a bird." 



But soon the sun rose higher and 

higher, 
And froggy's back got drier and drier. 
Till he thought perhaps it might be 

better, 
If the place was just a little wetter : 
But when he felt the mid-day glare, 
He said " high life was a poor affair ! " 
No wings on his back were coming out, 
He did n't feel even a feather sprout ; 
He could n't sing ; and began to see 
He was just a bull-frog up a tree ; 
But he feared the sneers of his friends 

in the bog, 
For he was proud as any other frog ; 
And he knew, if they saw him coming 

down, 
He would be the laugh and jest of the 

town. 
So he waited there, while his poor dry 

back 
Seemed burning up, and ready to 

crack ; 
His yellow sides looked pale and dim, 
And his eyes with tears began to swim, 
And he said, " You learn when you 

come to roam, 
That nature is nature, and home is 

home." 

And when at last the sun was gone, 
And the shadows cool were stealing 

on, 
With many a slow and feeble hop 
He got himself away from the top ; 
He reached the trunk, and then with a 

bound 
He landed safely on the ground, 
And managed back to the spring to 

creep, 
While all his friends were fast asleep. 
Next morning, those who were sitting 

near, 
Saw that he looked a little queer, 
So they asked, hoping to have some 

fun, 
Where he had been, and what he had 

done. 
Now, though our hero scorned to lie, 
He thought he had a right to be sly : 
For, said he, if the fellows find me out, 
I 'd better have been " up the spout." 
So he told them he 'd been very dry, 
And, to own the truth, got rather high / 

Then all the frogs about the spring 
Began at once this song to sing : 
First high it rose, and then it sunk : — 



J\ )EMS /• ( Vv 1 ( 'HILDREN. 



425 






•• A frog- got - drunk -got -drunk -got- 

drunk — 
We '11 - search - the-spring-for-his-whis- 

Itey-jug — 
Ka-chee, ka-chi, ka-cho, ka-chug!" 

I my story's true, as you may know, 
For still the Dull-frogs sing just so ; 
But that Mr. Hull was up a tree. 
There > knows but himself and 



THE HUNCHBACK. 

If he walked he could not keep beside 

The lads that were straight and well ; 
I yet, poor boy, how hard he tried, 

There *s none of us can tell. 
Tii get himself in trim for school 

Was weary work, and slow ; 
And once his thoughtless brother said, 

" You 're never ready, Joe ! " 

He sat in the sun, against the wall, 

When the rest were blithe and gay ; 
For he could not run and catch the ball 

Nor join in the noisy play. 
And first or last he would not share 

In a quarrel or a fight : 
But he was prompt enough to say, 

" No, boys, it is n't right ! " 

And when a lad o'er a puzzling " sum " 

Perplexed his head in doubt, 
Poor little, patient, hunchbacked Joe, 

Could always help him out. 
And surely as the time came round 

To read, define, and spell, 
Poor little Joe was ready first, 

And knew his lessons well. 

And not a child in Sunday-school 

Was half so quick as he. 
To tell who blessed the children once 

And took them on his knee. 
And if you could but draw him out, 

'T was good to hear him talk 
Of Him who made the blind to see 

And caused the lame to walk. 

When sick upon his bed he lay, 

He uttered no complaint : 
For scarce in patient gentleness 

Was he behind a saint. 
And when the summons came, that 
soon 

Or late must come to all. 



Poor little, happy, hunchbacked Joe, 
Was ready for the call. 



THE ENVIOUS WREN. 

On the ground lived a hen, 

In a tree lived a wren, 
Who picked up her food here and 
there : 

While biddy had wheat 

And all nice things to eat. 
Said the wren, I declare, 't is n't fair ! " 

" It is really too bad ! " 

She exclaimed — she was mad — 
" To go out when it is raining this way ! 

And to earn what you eat, 

Does n't make your food sweet, 
In spite of what some folks may say. 

" Now there is that hen." 

Said this cross little wren, 
" She 's fed till she 's fat as a drum ; 

While I strive and sweat 

For each bug that I get, 
And nobody gives me a crumb. 

" I can't see for my life 

Why the old farmer's wife 
Treats her so much better than me ; 

Suppose on the ground 

I hop carelessly round 
For a while, and just see what I '11 
see." 

Said this 'cute little wren, 

" I '11 make friends with the hen, 
And perhaps she will ask me to stay ; 

And then upon bread 

Every day I 'd be fed, 
And life would be nothing but play." 

So down flew the wren. 

'• Stop to tea," said the hen ; 
And soon biddy's supper was sent ; 

But scarce stopping to taste, 

The poor bird left in haste, 
And this was the reason she went : 

When the farmer's kind dame 

To the poultry-yard came, 
She said — and the wren shook with 
fright — 

" Biddy 's so fat she '11 do 

For a pie or a stew. 
And I guess I shall kill her to-night." 



426 



THE POEMS OF PHCEBE CARY. 



THE HAPPY LITTLE WIFE. 

" Now, Gudhand, have you sold the 
cow 

You took this morn to town ? 
And did you get the silver groats 

In your hand, paid safely down ? 

" And yet I hardly need to ask ; 

You hardly need to tell ; 
For I see by the cheerful face you 
bring, 

That yon have done right well." 

" Well ! I did not exactly sell her, 
Nor give her away, of course ; 

But I '11 tell you what I did, good wife, 
I swapped her for a horse." 

"A horse! Oh, Gudhand, you have 
done 

Just what will please me best, 
For now we can have a carriage, 

And ride as well as the rest." 

" Nay, not so fast, my good dame, 

We shall not want a gig : 
I had not ridden half a mile 

Till I swapped my horse for a pig." 

" That 's just the thing," she answered, 
,k I would have done myself : 

We can have a flitch of bacon now 
To put upon the shelf. 

" And when our neighbors come to 
dine 
With us, they '11 have a treat ; 
There is no need that we should 
ride, 
But there is that we should eat." 

" Alack ! alack ! " said Gudhand, 
" I fear you '11 change your note, 
When I tell you I have n't got the 

I swapped him for a goat." 

" Now, bless us ! " cried the good wife, 
" You manage things so well ; 

What I should ever do with a pig 
I 'm sure I cannot tell. 

" If I put my bacon on the shelf, 

Or put it in the pot. 
The folks would point at us and say 

' They eat up all they 've got ! ' 



" But a good milch goat, ah ! that 's 
the thing 
I 've wanted all my life ; 
And now we '11 have both milk and 
cheese," 
Cried the happy little wife. ' 

" Nay, not so fast," said Gudhand, 
" You make, too long a leap : 

When I found I could n't drive my 
goat, 
I swapped him for a sheep." 

" A sheep, my dear ! you must have 
tried 
To suit me all the time ; 
'T would plague me so to have a 
goat, 
Because the things will climb ! 

" But a sheep ! the wool will make us 
clothes 

To keep us from the cold ; 
Run out, my dear, this very night, 

And build for him a fold." 

" Nay, wife, it is n't me that cares 

If he be penned or loosed : 
I do not own the sheep at all, 

I swapped him for a goose." 

" There, Gudhand, I am so relieved ; 

It almost made me sick 
To think that I should have the 
wool 

To clip, and wash, and pick ! 

" 'T is cheaper, too, to buy our clothes, 
Than make them up at home ; 

And I have n't got a spinning-wheel, 
Nor got a carding-comb. 

" But a goose ! I love the taste of 
goose, 

When roasted nice and brown ; 
And then we want a feather bed, 

And pillows stuffed with down." 

" Now stop a bit," cried Gudhand,, 
" Your tongue runs like a clock ; 

The goose is neither here nor there, 
I swapped him for a cock." 

" Dear me, you manage everything 

As I would have it done ; 
We '11 know now when to stir our 
stumps, 

And rise before the sun. 



POEMS EOK CHILDREN 



4-V 



" A goose would be quite trouble- 
me 
For me to roast and stuff; 

And then our pillows and our beds 
i know, arc soft enough." 

11 Well, soft or hard," said Gudhand, 
M I guess they '11 have to do : 

And that we '11 have to wake at morn, 
Without the crowing, too ! 

•• For you know 1 could n't travel 
All day with naught to eat : 

So I took a shilling tor my cock. 
And bought myself some meat" 

"That was the wisest thing of all," 
Said the good wife, fond and true ; 



•• You do just after my own heart, 
Whatever thing you do. 

" We do not want a cork to crow, 
Nor want a clock to strike ; 

Thank God that we may lie in bed 
As long now as we lik< 

And then she took him by the beard 
That fell about his throat, 

And said, " While you arc mine, 
want 
Nor goose, norswine t nor goat /" 

And so the wife kissed Gudhand, 
And Gudhand kissed his wife : 

And they promised to each other 
To be all in all through life. 





INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



About the cottage, cold and white 

A boy named Peter 

A breath, like the wind's breath, may 

carry 

Across the German ocean .... 

A cunning and curious splendor 

A farmer, who owned a hne orchard 

one day 

After the cloud and the whirlwind . 
. in the Book of Books, to-day 
A half-score years have sped away . 
Ah ! M Barefoot Boy ! " you have led 

me back 

Ah, could I my poet only draw . . 
Ah ! how the eye on the picture stops 
Ah, she was not an angel to adore . 
Ah ! there are mighty things under the 

sun 

A huntsman, bearing his gun a-field 
Ah ! what will become of the lily 
Ah yes, I see the sunshine play 
Alack, it is a dismal night . . 
Alas, alas ! how many sighs . 
A little boy who, strange to say 
A little downy chicken one dav 
All by the sides of the wide wild river 
All in a dreary, April day .... 
All in the gay and golden weather . 
All these hours she sits and counts . 
All the time my soul is calling . . 
All upon a summer dav .... 
Alone within my house I sit . . . 
Along the grassy lane one day . . 
A man he was who loved the good . 
Among the pitfalls in our way . . 
And why are you pale, my Nora ? . 
And why do you throw down your hoe 

by the way ? 

An eye with the piercing eagle's fire 



PAGE 

270 

3*3 
174 



-33 

3S2 

287 



347 
185 
196 



172 
420 

345 
229 

120 
394 
4i7 
414 
200 
357 
l 3° 
339 
244 
257 
209 

193 

386 

246 

98 

261 

400 



PAGE 

An old, old house by the side of the sea 207 
An orphan, through the world . . . 392 
Apart from the woes that are dead and 

gone 161 

A poor blind man was traveling one 

day , • 155 

A shepherd's child young Barbara 

grew 295 

As I sit and watch at the window-pane 259 
As laborers set in a vineyard .... 340 
As one that leadeth a blind man . .170 
As the still hours toward midnight 

wore 227 

As violets, modest, tender-eyed . . . 338 
At noon-time I stood in the doorway 

to see 192 

At the dead of night by the side of the 

sea 159 

At the north end of our village stands 97 
Away, away in the Northland . . .417 
Away in the dim and distant past . . 336 
Away with all life's memories . . . 249 
Aweary, wounded unto death . . . 249 
A weaver sat one day at his loom . . 389 
A wretched farce is our life at best . .359 

Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen .314 
Beautiful symbol of a freer life . . .152 
Because I have not done the things I 

know 178 

Behind the cottage the mill creek 

flowed 284 

Be not much troubled about many 

things * . . . . 179 

Be with me, O Lord, when my life hath 

increase 388 

Blessings, alas unmerited 375 

Blessings, blessings on the beds . . .254 
Boatman, boatman! my brain is wild . 164 



430 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

Brightly for him the future smiled . . 329 
Brightly the morning sunshine glowed 294 
Brown-faced sailor, tell me true . . .217 

Busybody, busybody 272 

By that name you will not know her . 329 

Care is like a husbandman . . . .156 

Children, who read my lay 266 

Close at the window-pane Barbara 

stands 146 

Clouds with a little light between . . 248 
Come, bring me wild pinks from the 

valleys r* 228 

Come, darling, put your frown aside . no 
Come down, O Lord, and with us live ! 385 
Come down to us, help and heal us . 247 
Come, gather round me, children . . 267 

Come let us talk together 214 

Come, little children, come with me . 418 
Come, loveliest season of the year . .351 
Come make for me a little song . . . 195 
Come out from heaven, O Lord, and 

be my guide 250 

Come thou, my heavy soul, and lay . 238 
Come up, April, through the valley . 342 

Comfort me \yith apples 348 

Crooked and dwarfed the tree must 

stay 379 

Cunning little fairy 344 

Darkness, blind darkness every way . 251 
Darling, while the tender moon . . .356 
Dear, gentle Faith ! on the sheltered 

porch 344 

Dear gracious Lord, if that thy pain . 240 
Dear little children, where'er you be . 405 
Do not look for wrong and evil . . .160 
Don't ever go hunting for pleasures . 274 
Do we not say, forgive us, Lord . . 377 
Down and up, and up and down . .163 
Down the peach-tree slid 157 

Each fearful storm that o'er us rolls . 251 
Earth seems as peaceful and as bright 375 
Earth, with its dark and dreadful ills . 252 

Egal ton's hills are sunny 103 

Emily Mayfield all the day . . . .109 
Even as a child too well she knew . . 332 

Fainter and fainter may fall on my ear 359 
Fair girl, the light of whose morning 

keeps 337 

Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea . . 308 

Fair youth, too timid to lift your eyes . 361 



PAGE 

Faithless, perverse, and blind . . . 387 
False and fickle, or fair and sweet . .321 
Fame guards the wreath we call a 

crown 174 

Flower of the deep red zone . . . . 195 
For the sharp conflicts I have had 

with sin . . . 231 

Fort Wagner ! that is a place for us .401 
Friends, let us slight no pleasant 

spring 167 

From the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy 

and grand . 281 

From the outward world about us . .184 
Full early in the dewy time of year , 177 

Get up, my little handmaid . . . .102 
Go not far in the land of light ! . . . 226 
Good mother, what quaint legend are 

you reading 119 

Good old mother Faerie 263 

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace . 308 
Gracie rises with a light ; . . . .316 
Great master of the poet's art ! . . . 400 

Haste, little fingers, haste, haste . .218 
Has the spring come back, my darling .210 
Flave you been in our wild west coun- 
try ? then 208 

Heart-sick, homeless, weak, and weary 133 
He had drunk from founts of pleasure 37 5 
He has gone at last : yet I could not 

see 327 

He knew what mortals know when 

tried 396 

Helpless before the cross I lay . . .391 
Hemmed in by the hosts of the Aus- 

trians 401 

Her brown hair plainly put away . . 343 
Her casement like a watchful eye . .127 
Her cup of life with joy is full . . . 364 
Here is the sorrow, the sighing .. . . 252 
Her heart was light as human heart 

can be 365 

Her silver lamp half -filled with oil . . 372 
Her skies, of whom I sing, are hung . 335 
Her voice was sweet and low : her face 176 
Her voice was tender as a lullaby . .149 
He sat all alone in his dark little room 167 
He spoils his house and throws his 

pains away l S l 

His hands with earthly work are done 394 
His sheep went idly over the hills . .164 

Honest little Peter Grey 274 

Hope in our hearts doth only stay • • 236 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 



431 



Hope wafts my bark, and round my 

way 363 

How .uc we living ? [62 

How can you speak to me bo, Charlie ! 322 
Hew dare I in thy courts appear . . 

How dreary would the meadows be . 262 

[lushed is the even-song of the bird . 292 

[ am weary of the working .... 169 

I asked the angels in my prayer . . 250 
I ask not wealth, but power to take . 334 
I do not think the Providence unkind . 158 
I dreamed I hail a plot of ground . . 163 
I dreamed I had a plot of ground . . 226 
If fancy ^\o not all deceive .... 363 
If he walked he could not keep beside 425 
If I were a painter, I could paint . . 189 
If one had never seen the full complete- 
ness 1S1 

If something waits, and you should 

now 414 

If we should see one sowing seed . .178 
If when thy children, (J my friend . . 3S7 
If you "re told to do a thing .... 419 
If you tried and have not won .' . .412 

I have a heavenly home 374 

I have been little used to frame . . . 239 
I have been out to-day in field and 

wood . 34S 

I have no moan to make 398 

I have sinned, I have sinned, before 

thee, the Most Holy 378 

I heard the gay spring coming . . .171 
I hold that Christian grace abounds . 170 
I knew a man — I know him still . .165 

I know a little damsel 218 

I know not what the world may be . . 225 
I know that Edgar 's kind and good . 307 
I know you are always by mv side . . 397 
I "11 tell you two fortunes, my fine little 

lad 274 

I love my love so well, I would . . . 365 
I love the deep quiet — all buried in 

leaves 209 

I love the flowers that come about with 

spring 198 

I 'm getting better, Miriam, though it 

tires me yet to speak 315 

Impatient women as you wait . . . ^^^ 
In a little bird's nest <>f a house . . . 268 
In a patch of clearing scarcely more . 124 
In asking how I came to choose. . . 217 
Jn my lost childhood old folks said to 

me f6o 



In the dead <>f night to the dead- 
house 136 

In the pleasant spring-time weather . 220 
In the shade of the cloister, long ago . 3S3 
In the Stormy waters ol <iall.iu.iv . Il8 

In the time when the little (lowers arc 

born 301 

In the village church where a child .she- 
was led 290 

In the years that now are dead and 

gone 342 

In thy time, and times of mourning . 2.J5 

Into the house ran Lett ice 93 

In vain the morning trims her brows . 227 
In what a kingly fashion man doth 

dwell 169 

I said, if I might go back again . . . 327 
I saw in mv dream a wonderful stream 212 
I see him part the careless throng . . 366 
Is it you, Jack ? Old boy, is it really 

you ? 106 

I think there are some maxims . . . 273 
I think true love is never blind . . . 360 
I thought to find some healing clime . 328 
I took a little good seed in my hand . 377 
It was a sandy level wherein stood . . 202 
It was not day, and was not night . . 94 
I 've got such a cold, I cannot sing . . 423 
I walked from our wild north country 

once 99 

I was out in the countrv 412 

I will call her when she comes to me . 201 

Jenny Brown has as pretty a house of 
her own 410 

Jenny Dunleath coming back to the 
town 112 

Johnny Right, his hand was brown . .123 

Last night, when the sweet young 

moon shone clear 307 

Laugh out, O stream, from your bed of 

green - 355 

Lest the great glory from on high . . 248 

Lest to evil ways I run 241 

Life grows better every day .... 334 
Life's sadly solemn mystery . . . .251 
Lift up the years ! lift up the years . .142 

Like a child that is lost ..".... 243 

Like to that little homely flower. . . 221 

Little children, you must seek . . . 265 

Little Daisy smiling wakes .... 349 

Loaded with gallant soldiers .... 399 

Lord, with what body do they come . 381 



432 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



\ 



PAGE 

" Love thee ? " Thou canst not ask of 
me 363 

Master, I do not ask that thou . . .252 
Morn on the mountains ! streaks of 

roseate light 196 

Most favored lady in the land . . . ^33 

Mother 's quite distracted 412 

Mr. Wren and his dear began early 

one year 298 

My Carmia, my life, my saint . . .219 
My God, I feel thy wondrous might . 246 
My head is sick and my heart is faint . 361 
My heart thou makest void, and full . 225 
My homely flower that blooms along . 197 
My lad who sits at breakfast .... 269 
My little birds, with backs as brown . 200 

My little love hath made 215 

My Rose, so red and round . . . .198 
My sorrowing friend, arise and go . . 222 
"My sweetest Dorothy," said John . 300 
My thoughts, I fear, run less to right 

than wrong 181 

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown . 337 
Ne'er lover spake in tenderer words . 355 
Neighbored by a maple wood . . .116 
No glittering chaplet brought from 

other lands 186 

Nor far nor near grew shrub nor tree . 204 
No tears for him ! his light was not 

your light 187 

Not what we think but what we do . .164 
Now give me your burden, if burden 

you bear 138 

Now, good wife, bring your precious 

hoard 3 12 

Now, Gudhand, have you sold the 

cow 426 

No whit is gained, do you say to me . 122 
Now in the waning autumn days . . 288 
Now tell me all my fate, Jennie . . . 220 
Now the hickory, with its hum . . . 107 

O brothers and sisters, growing old . 326 

O cousin Kit MacDonald 128 

O day to sweet religious thought . . 245 
O doubly-bowed and bruised reed . . 396 
O'er the millef's cottage the seasons 

glide 292 

O fickle and uncertain March . . . 347 
O friends, we are drawing nearer home 222 
Often I sit and spend my hour . . .185 
Of the precious years of my life, to-day 384 



PAGE 

Of what are you dreaming, my pretty 

maid 343 

Oh, for a mind more clear to see . . 393 
Oh, good painter, tell me true . . .190 
Oh, if this living soul, that many a time 387 
Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true ... 96 
Oh, the tender joy of those autumn 

hours 289 

Oh to be back in the cool summer 

shadow 362 

Oh what a day it was to us . . . .114 
Oh what is thy will toward us mortals . 153 

O ladies, softly fair 203 

O land, of every land the best . . . 336 
Old Ajax was a faithful dog . . . .423 
Old Death proclaims a holocaust . . 141 
Old pictures, faded long, to-night . . 345 
O Loving One, O Bounteous One . . 376 
O memory, be sweet to me . . . .199 
O men, with wounded hearts .... 393 
O mourner, mourn not vanished light . 222 
O my friend, O my dearly beloved . . 367 
Once, a long time ago, so good stories 

begin 305 

Once a trap was baited 422 

Once, being charmed by thy smile . . 366 
Once in a rough, wild country . . .275 
Once — in the ages that have passed 

away 3^9 

Once more, despite the noise of wars . 186 
Once when morn was flowing in . . . 270 
Once, when my youth was in its flower 357 
Once when the messenger that stays . 150 
One autumn-time I went into the woods 151 

One day, a poor peddler 265 

One moment, to strictly run out by the 

sands 137 

One on another against the wall . . . 200 
"One story more," the whole world 

cried 399 

One summer night • -165 

One sweetly solemn thought . . . .372 
Only a newsboy, under the light . . .341 

On the ground lived a hen 4 2 5 

O river, why lie with your beautiful 

face 161 

O Rosamond, thou fair and good . .371 
O summer ! my beautiful, beautiful- 
summer 2I1 

O sweet and charitable friend . . • 353 
O Thou, who all my life hast crowned 244 
O Thou, who dost the sinner meet . . 241 
O time by holy prophets long foretold 378 
Our days are few and full of strife . . 243 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



433 



Our generals sat in their tent <>nc night 

Our Oocl is love, and that which we 
miscall 

Our life is like a march where some 

Our mightiest in our midst is slain . . 

Our old brown homestead reared its 
w.dls 

Our sun has gone down at the noonday 

( Hir unwise purposes are wisely crossed 

Out of the earthly years we live . . . 

Out of the heavens come down to me . 

Out oi the wild and weary night . . 

( ) winds ! ye are too rough, too rough ! 

( > years, gone down into the past . . 



3 20 

243 
335 
253 



J5« 

404 

16b 

-45 
-44 
22S 

380 



Peace ! for my brain is on the rack . 129 
Phantoms come and crowd me thick . 176 
Pleasure and pain walk hand in hand . 24S 
Poet, whose lays our memory still . . 403 
Poor little moth! thy summer sports 
were done 150 



Questioning, blind, unsatisfied . . 

Red in the east the morning broke . 
Round and round the wheel doth run 



3S5 



'5- 
!73 



Says John to his mother, " Look here " 259 
Seek not to walk by borrowed light . 162 
Seven great windows looking seaward 103 
She was so good, we thought before 

she died 337 

Shine down, little head, so fair . . .219 
Shorter and shorter now the twilight 

clips 205 

Show you her picture ? here it lies ! 223 
Since : if you stood by my side to-day 328 
Since thou wouldst have me show . .216 
Sing me a song, my nightingale . . .216 
Sinner, careless, proud, and cold . . 390 

Sitting by my fire alone 194 

So I 'm " crazy " in loving a man of 

three-score 320 

Solitude — Life is inviolate solitude . 1S0 
Some comfort when all else is night . 194 

Sometimes for days 1 rg 

Sometimes the softness of the em- 
bracing air 1-^ 

Sometimes when hopes have vanished, 

one and all 1-0 

Sometimes, when rude, cold shadows 

run 188 

So she goes sometimes past Dovecote 

Mill 2S7 



PACT 

St.u yet a little longer in the skv . . 1 88 
Steer hither, rough old mariner . . . 10S 
Still alway groweth in me the great 

wonder 224 

Still from the unsatisfying cpie-a . .152 
Stop, traveler, just a moment at mv 

gate 213 

Strange, strange tor thee and me . . 340 
Sunset ! a hush is on the air .... 193 

Suppose, my little lady 417 

Suppose your hand with power >up- 

Plied 153 

Swiftly onward the seasons Hew . . . 284 
Swiftly the seasons sped away . . . 286 

Tell me, Effie, while you are sitting .414 
Tell you a story, do you say ? ... 104 
The best man should never pass by .173 
The black walnut-logs in the chimney 99 
The boughs they blow across the pane 227 
The clouds all round the sky are black 151 
The crocus rose from her snowy bed . 352 
The clay, with a cold, dead color . . 95 
The farm-lad quarried from the mow . 201 
The glance that doth thy neighbor 

doubt 152 

The good dame looked from her cot- 
tage 303 

The grass lies flat beneath the wind . 323 

The heart is not satisfied 3S7 

The hills are bright with maples yet . 194 
The house lay snug as a robin's nest . 132 
The Lady Marjory lay on her bed . .317 
The leaves are fading and falling . . 256 

The long day is closing 246 

The long grass burned brown . . .416 
The maiden has listened to loving 

words 364 

The moon's gray tent is up : another 

hour 171 

The morn is hanging her fire-fringed 

veil 146 

The path of duty I clearly trace . . .168 

The pig and the hen 269 

There are eyes that look through us . 360 
There has something gone wrong . . 423 
There is hovering about me . . . .229 
There is comfort in the world . . . 339 
There is work good man, for you to- 
day 121 

There was a good and reverent man . 168 

There was an old woman 264 

There were seven fishers, with nets in 
their hands 241 



434 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



The smoke of the Indian summer . . 
The solemn word had spread . . . 
The stone upon the wayside seed that 

fell . . : 

The story books have told you . . . 
The stream of life is going dry . . . 
The sun of a sweet summer morning . 
The sun, who smiles wherever he goes 
The time has come, as I knew it must 
The truth lies round about us, all . . 
The waiting-women wait at her feet . 
The waves, they are wildly heaving 
The west shines out through the lines 

of jet 

The wild and windy March once more 
The wind blows where it listeth . . 
The wind is blowing cold from the west 
The window just over the street . . 
The winter goes and the summer comes 
The year has lost its leaves again . . 
They set me up, and bade me stand . 
Things that I have to hold and keep, 

ah ! there 

Think on him, Lord i we ask thy aid . 
This extent hath, freedom's ground . . 
This happy day, whose risen sun . . 
Though Nature's lonesome, leafless 

bowers ...."....... 

Though never shown by word or deed 
Though sin hath marked thy brother's 

brow 

Though we were parted, or though he 

had died 

Thou givest Lord, to Nature law . 
Thou, under Satan's fierce control . 
Three little bugs in a basket . . . 
Thy works, O Lord, interpret thee . 
Till I learned to love thy name . . 
Time makes us eagle-eyed . . . 
'T is all right, as I knew it would be 

by and by 

'T is a sad truth, yet 't is a truth 
To begin, in things quite simple 
To Him who is the Life of life . . 
Toiling early, and toiling late . . 
Too meek by half was he who came 
Too much of joy is sorrowful . . 
True worth is in being, not seeming 
Trying, trying — always trying . . 
Turning some papers carelessly .. . 
'T was a lonesome couch we came to 

spread . 

'T was a night to make the bravest 
'T was in the middle of summer 



PAGR 

134 

242 

167 
268 

247 

33° 
362 
328 
170 
126 
229 

219 

203 
158 
158 
144 
205 
238 
163 

392 
378 
169 
382 

347 
162 



239 

360 

245 
237 
261 

243 

247 

174 

322 

S3 2 
271 
247 
334 
355 
J 59 
176 

157 

354 

397 
306 
100 



'T was the fisher's wife at her neigh 
bor's door . 

Two careless, happy children . . 

Two clouds in the early morning . 

Two thirsty travelers chanced one day 
to meet 

Two travelers, meeting by the way 

Two young men, when I was poor . 

Unpraised but of my simple rhymes 
Up ere the throstle is out of the thorn 
Up Gregory ! the cloudy east . . 
Upon her cheek such color glows . 

Very simple are my pleasures . . 
Vile, and deformed by sin I stand . 



421 
346 

H5 

161 

J54 
166 

245 
l 3 1 
2 54 
332 

156 
376 



Wake, Dillie, my darling, and kiss me 237 

Watch her kindly, stars 364 

We always called her " poor Margaret " 317 
We are face to face and between us 

here 366 

We are proclaimed even against our 

wills . ... . . . . . . .154 

We are the mariners, and God the sea 173 
We contradictory creatures . . . .156 

We heard his hammer all day long . 254 
Well, you have seen it — a tempting 

spot ! 282 

We 're married, they say, and you 

think you have won me 212 

We scarce could doubt our Father's 

power . 352 

We stood, my soul and I 358 

We used to think it was so queer . . 95 
What comfort, when with clouds of 

woe 230 

What is it that doth spoil the fair 

adorning J?7 

What is my little sweetheart like, d' 

you say ? 215 

What is time, O glorious Giver . . . 244 

What '11 you have, John ? 272 

What shall I do when I stand in my 

place • • 239 

When her mind was sore bewildered : 389 
When I see the long wild briers . . 202 
When I think of the weary nights and 

days 9 8 

When I was young — it seems as 

though J 47 

When March has gone with his cruel 

wind 420 

When silenced on his faithful lips . . 4°3 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



435 



the 



When skies are growing warm and 
bright 

When spring-time prospers in 
grass 

When Steps are hurrying homeward 

When the birds were mating and build 



208 

156 

225 



mg 



310 
276 

252 
184 



When the cares of day are ended , 
When the mildew's blight we see 
When the morning first uncloses 
When the way we should tread runs 

evenly on 337 

When the world no solace gives . . 392 
When you would have sweet flowers to 

smell and hold 331 

While I had mine eyes, I feared . . 397 
While shines the sun, the storm even 

then 175 

Why are we so impatient of delay . . 386 



Why do you come to my apple-tree . 273 

Why weep ye for the falling .... 240 
Will the mocking daylight never be 

done 340 

With cobwebs and dust on the window 

spread 283 

With eyes to her sewing-work dropped 

down 140 

With her white face full of agony . . 333 

Woodland, green and gay with dew . 206 

Ye winds, that talk among the pines . 326 

You have sent me from her tomb . . 395 
You know th' forks of th' road, and 

th' brown mill ? 206 

You never said a word to me . . .357 

You restless, curious little Jo ... 415 

You think I do not love you ! why . 154 

You 've read of a spider, I suppose . 271 




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